
Class % $ \*&\ 

Book ■ g)fe 



PRESENTED HY 



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ILLUSTRATIONS 



LYING, 



ALL ITS BRANCHES. 



AMELIA OPIE, 



SECOND AMERICAN EDITION, 



BOSTON : 

PUBLISHED BY MUNROE AND FRANCIS. 

NEW YORK : 

CHARLES S. FRANCIS, BROADWAY. 



1827. 






<£ S Gl& 



^ 



TO 

Dr. ALDERSON of NORWICH. 



To thee, my beloved Father, I dedica- 
ted my first, and to thee J also dedicate 
my present, work ; — with the pleasing 
conviction that thou art disposed to form 
a favourable judgment of any production, 
however humble, which has a tendency 
to promote the moral and religious wel- 
fare of mankind. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



• Gift 
Miss M, O. Codmarj 
March 1914 



PREFACE. 



1 am aware that a preface must be short, if its au- 
thor aspires to have it read. I shall therefore content 
myself with making a very few preliminary observa- 
tions, which I wish to be considered as apologies. 
My first apology is, for having throughout my book 
made use of the words lying and lies, instead of some 
gentler term, or some easy paraphrase, by which I 
might have avoided the risk of offending the delicacy 
of any jf my readers. 

Our great satirist speaks of a Dean who was a fa- 
vourite at the church where he officiated, because 

" He never mentioned hell to ears polite, — " 

and T fear that to " ears polite," my coarseness, in 
uniformly calling lying and lie by their real names, 
may sometimes be offensive. 

But, when writing a book against lying, I was oblig- 
ed to express my meaning in the manner most conso- 
nant to the strict truth ; nor eould \ employ any 
words with such propriety as those hollowed and sanc- 
tioned for use, on such an occasion, by the practice of 
inspired, and holy men of old. 

Moreover, I believe that those who accustom them- 
selves to call lying and lie by a softening appellation, 
are in danger of weakening their aversion to the fault 
itself. 

My second apology is, for presuming to come for- 
ward, with such apparent boldness, as a didactic writ- 



IV PREFACE. 

er, and a teacher of truths, which I ought to believe 
that every one knows already, and better than I do. 

But I beg permission to deprecate the charge of 
presumption and self-conceit, by declaring that I pre- 
tend not to lay before my readers any new knowl- 
edge ; my only aim is to bring to their recollection 
knowledge which they already possess, but do not 
constantly recall and act upon. 

I am to them, and to my subject, what the picture- 
cleaner is to the picture ; the restorer to observation 
of what is valuable, and not the artist who created it. 

In the next place I wish to remind them that a 
weak hand is as able as a powerful one to hold a mir- 
ror, in which we may see any defects in our dress or 
person. 

In the last place, I venture to assert that there is not 
in my whole book a more common-place truth, than 
that kings are but men, and that monarchs, as well as 
their subjects, must surely die. 

Notwithstanding, Philip of Macedon was so con- 
scious of his liability to forget this awful truth, that he 
employed a monitor to follow him every day, repeat- 
ing in his ear. " Remember thou art but a man." 
And he who gave this salutary admonition neither 
possessed superiority of wisdom, nor pretended to 
possess it. 

All, therefore, that I require of my readers is to do 
me justice to believe that, in the following work, my 
preteasions have been as humble and as confined, as 
those of the remembrancer of Philip of Macedon. 

AMELIA OPIE. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. I. 



Introduction. 



CHAP. II. 

On the Active and Passive Lies of Vanity— The Stage 
Coach — Unexpected Discoveries. ... - 8 

CHAP. III. 

On the Lies of Flattery— The Turban. - - - 49 

CHAP. IV. 

Lies of Fear— The Bank Note. - - - - - 60 

CHAP. V. 

Lies falsely called Lies of Benevolence— A Tale of Pot- 
ted Sprats — An Authoress and her Auditors. - 68 

CHAP. VI. 
Lies of Convenience — Projects Defeated. - 81 

CHAP. VII. 
Lies of Interest— The Skreen. - 93 

CHAP. VIII. 

Lies of First-Rate Malignity— The Orphans. - 105 

CHAP. IX. 

Lies of Second-Rate Malignity— The Old Gentleman and 
the Young One. ----._. jgg 

CHAP. X. 
Li«e of Benevolence. -->-*.-. 133 



■-.«#. 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



CHAP. X. Continued. 

Lies of Benevolence — Mistaken Kindness — Father and 
Son. ......... 

CHAP. XL 

Lies of Wantonness and Practical Lies. - 

CHAP. XII. 

Our own Experience of the Painful Results of Lying". - 

CHAP. XIII. 
Lying the most common of all Vices. .... 

CHAP. XIV. 
Extracts from Lord Bacon, and others. - 

CHAP. XV. 

Observations on the Extracts from Hawkesworth ■ and 
others. - 

CHAP. XVI. 

Religion the only Basis of Truth. .... 

CHAP. XVII. 
The same subject continued. ..... 

Conclusion. - - 



144 



170 



177 



185 



184 



211 



219 



254 

261 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

OF 

LYING, 

IN ALL ITS BRANCHE! 



CHAPTER I. 



INTRODUCTION. 



What constitutes lying ? 

I answer the intention to deceive. 

If this be a correct definition, there must be 
passive as well as active lying ; and those who 
withhold the truth, or do not tell the whole truth, 
with an intention to deceive, are guilty of lying, as 
well as those who tell a direct or positive falsehood. 

Lies are many, and various in their nature and 
in their tendency, and may be arranged under their 
different names, thus : — 

Lies of Vanity. 

Lies of Flattery. 

Lies of Convenience. 

Lies of Interest. 

Lies of Fear. 

Lies of first-rate Malignity. 

Lies of second-rate Malignity. 

Lies, falsely called Lies of Benevolence. 

Lies of real Benevolence. 



8 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Lies of mere Wantonness, proceeding from a 
depraved love of lying, or contempt for truth, 

There are others probably ; but I believe that 
this list contains all those which are of the most 
importance ; unless, indeed, we may add to it — 

Practical Lies ; that is, Lies acted, not spoken. 

I shall give an anecdote, or tale, in order to il- 
lustrate each sort of lie in its turn, or nearly so, lies 
for the sake of lying excepted ; for I should find 
it very difficult so to illustrate this the most despi- 
cable species of falsehood. 



CHAPTER II. 

ON THE ACTIVE AND PASSIVE LIES OF VANITY. 

I shall begin my observations by defining what 
I mean by the Lie of Vanity, both in its active and 
passive nature ; these lies being undoubtedly the 
most common, because vanity is one of the most 
powerful springs of human action, and is usually 
the besetting sin of every one. Suppose, that, in 
order to give myself consequence, I were to assert 
that I was actually acquainted with certain great 
and distinguished personages whom I had merely 
met in fashionable society. Suppose also, I were 
to say that I was at such a place, and such an as- 
sembly on such a night, without adding, that I was 
there, not as an invited guest, but only because a 
benefit concert was held at these places for which 
I had tickets. — These would both be lies of vanity j 



ON LIES OF VANITY. 9 

but the one would be an active, the other a pas- 
sive, lie. 

In the first I should assert a direct falsehood, in 
the other I should withhold part of the truth 5 but 
both, would be lies, because, in both, my intention 
was to deceive.* 

But though we are frequently tempted to be guil- 
ty of the active lies of vanity, our temptations to 
its passive lies are more frequent still ; nor can the 
sincere lovers of truth be too much on their guard 
against this constantly recurring danger. The fol- 
lowing instances will explain what I mean by this 
observation. 

If I assert that my motive for a particular action 
was virtuous, when I know that it was worldly and 
selfish, 1 am guilty o c an active, or direct, lie. But 
I am equally guilty of falsehood, if, while I hear 
my actions or forbearances praised, and imputed to 
decidedly worthy motives, when J am conscious 
that they sprung from unworthy or unimportant 
ones, I listen With silent complacency, arid So not 
positively disclaim my light to fcomnieMatioti ; 
only, in the one case I lie directly, \x\Ahe other 
indirectly ; the lie is active in the one, wa&pm&tot 
in the other. And are we not all of us conscious 
of having sometimes accepted incense to our vani- 
ty, which we knew that we did not deserve ? 

Men have been known to boast of attention, and 
even of avowals of serious love from women, and 
women from men, which, in point of fact, they 
never received, and therein have been guilty of pos- 



* This passive lie is a very frequent one in certain circles in Lon- 
don ; as many ladies and gentlemen there purchase tickets for benefit 
concerts held at great 'houses, in order that they may be able to say, 
H I was at Lady such a one's on such a night." 



10 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

itive falsehood ; but they who, without any contra- 
diction on their own part, allow their friends and 
flatterers to insinuate that they have been, or are, 
objects of love and admiration to those who never 
professed either, are as much guilty of deception 
as the utterers of the above-mentioned assertion. 
Still, it is certain, that many, who would shrink with 
moral disgust from committing the latter species of 
falsehood, are apt to remain silent, when their van- 
ity is gratified, without any overt act of deceit on 
their part, and are contented to let the flattering 
belief remain uncontradicted. Yet the turpitude is, 
in my opinion, at least, nearly equal, if my defini- 
tion of lying be correct ; namely, the intention to 
deceive. 

This disingenuous passiveness, this deceitful si- 
lence, belongs to thai extensive and common species 
of falsehood, withholding the truth. 

Bat this tolerated sin, denominated white lying, 
is a sin which I believe that some persons commit, 
not only without being conscious that it is a sin, 
but, frequently, with a belief that, to do it readily, 
and without confusion, is often a merit, and always 
a proof of ability. Still more frequently, they do 
it unconsciously, perhaps, from the force of habit ; 
and, like Monsieur Jourdain, " the Bourgeois gen- 
til-homme," who found out that he had talked 
prose all his life without knowing it, these persons 
utter lie upon lie, without knowing that what they 
utter deserves to be considered as falsehood. 

I am myself convinced, that a passive lie is equal- 
ly as irreconcileable to moral principles as an active 
one ; but I am well aware that most persons are of 
a different opinion. Yet, I would say to those who 
thus differ from me, if you allow yourselves to vio- 
late truth — that is, to deceive, for any purpose what- 



ON LIES OF VANITY. 11 

over — who can say where this sort of self-indul- 
gence will submit to be bounded ? Can you be 
sure that you will not, when strongly tempted, utter 
what is equally false, in order to benefit yourself at 
the expense of a fellow-creature ? 

All mortals are, at times, accessible to tempta- 
tion ; but, when we are not exposed to it, we dwell 
with complacency on our means of resisting it, on 
our principles, and our tried and experienced self- 
denial : but, as the life-boat, and the safety-gun, 
which succeeded in all that they were made to do 
while the sea was calm, and the winds still, have 
been known to fail when the vessel was tost on a 
tempestuous ocean ; so those who may successful- 
ly oppose principle to temptation when the tempest 
of the passions is not awakened within their bosoms, 
may sometimes be overwhelmed by its power when 
it meets them in all its awful energy and unexpect- 
ed violence. 

But in every warfare against human corruption, 
habitual resistance to little temptations is, next to 
prayer, the most efficacious aid. He who is to be 
trained for public exhibitions of feats of strength, is 
made to carry small weights at first, which are daily 
increased in heaviness, till, at last, he is almost un- 
consciously able to bear, with ease, the greatest 
weight possible to be borne by man. In like man- 
ner, those who resist the daily temptation to tell 
what are apparently trivial and innocent lies, will 
be better able to withstand allurements to serious 
and important deviations from truth, and be more 
fortified in the hour of more severe temptation 
against every species of dereliction from integrity. 

The active lies of vanity are so numerous, but 
at the same time, are so like each other, that it 
were useless, as well as endless, to attempt to 



12 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

enumerate them. I shall therefore mention one of 
them only, before I proceed to my tale on the ac- 
tive lie of vanity, and that is the most common 
of all ; namely the violation of truth which persons 
indulge in relative to their age ; an error so gener- 
ally committed, especially by the unmarried of both 
sexes, that few persons can expect to be believed 
when declaring their age at an advanced period of 
life. So common, and therefore so little disreputa- 
ble, is this species of lie considered to be, that a 
sensible friend of mine said to me the other day, 
when I asked him the age of the lady whom he was 
going to marry, " She tells me she is five-and-twen- 
ty; I therefore conclude that she is five-and-thir- 
ty." This was undoubtedly spoken in joke ; still 
it was an evidence of the toleration generally grant- 
ed on this point. 

But though it is possible that my friend believed 
the lady to be a year or two older than she owned 
herself to be, and thought a deviation from truth on 
this subject was of no consequence, I am very sure 
that he would not have ventured to marry a wo- 
man whom he suspected of lying on any other oc- 
casion. This however is a lie which does not ex- 
pose the utterer to severe animadversion, and for 
this reason probably, that all mankind are so averse 
to be thought old, that the wish to be considered 
younger than the truth warrants meets with compla- 
cent sympathy and indulgence, even when years 
are notoriously annihilated at the impulse of vanity. 

I give the following story in illustration of the 

ACTIVE LIE OF VANITY, 



THE STAGE COACH. 13 



THE STAGE COACH. 

Amongst those whom great success in trade had 
raised to considerable opulence in their native city, 
was a family by the name of Burford ; and the eld- 
est brother, when he was the only surviving partner 
of that name in the firm, was not only able to indulge 
himself in the luxuries of a carriage, country-house, 
garden, hot-houses, and all the privileges which 
wealth bestows, but could also lay by money enough 
to provide amply for his children. 

His only daughter had been adopted, when very 
young, by her paternal grandmother, whose fortune 
was employed in her son's trade, and who could 
well afford to take on herself all the expenses of 
Annabel's education. But it was with painful re- 
luctance that Annabel's excellent mother consented 
to resign her child to another's care ; nor could she 
be prevailed upon to do so, till Burford, who be- 
lieved that his widowed parent, would sink under 
the loss of her husband, unless Annabel was permit- 
ted to reside with her, commanded her to yield her 
maternal rights in pity to this beloved sufferer. She 
could therefore presume to refuse no longer ; — but 
she yielded with a mental conflict only too prophet- 
ic of the mischief to which she exposed her child's 
mind and character, by this enforced surrender of 
a mother's duties. 

The grandmother was a thoughtless woman of 

this world — the mother, a pious, reflecting bsing, 

continually preparing herself for the world to come. 

With the latter, Annabel would have acquired prin- 

2 



14 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ciples — with the former, she could only learn ac- 
complishments ; and that weakly judging person 
encouraged her in habits of mind and character 
which would have tilled both her father and mother 
with pain and apprehension. 

Vanity was her ruling passion ; and this her 
grandmother fostered by every means in her power. 
She gave her elegant dresses, and had her taught 
showy accomplishments. She delighted to hear 
her speak of herself, and boast of the compliments 
paid her on her beauty and her talents. She was 
even weak enough to admire the skilful falsehood 
with which she embellished every thing which she 
narrated : but this vicious propensity the old lady 
considered only as a proof of a lively fancy ; and 
sh e congratulated herself on the consciousness how 
much more agreeable her fluent and inventive An- 
nabel was, than the matter-of-fact girls with whom 
she associated. Bur while Annabel and her grand- 
mother were on a visit at Burford's country-house, 
and while the parents were beholding with sorrow 
the conceit and flippancy of their only daughter, 
they were plunged at once into comparative pover- 
ty, by the ruin of some of Burford's correspondents 
abroad, and by the fraudulent conduct of a friend in 
whom he had trusted. In a few short weeks, there- 
fore, the ruined grandmother and her adopted child 
together with the parents and their boys, were for- 
ced to seek an asylum in the heart of Wales, and 
live on the slender marriage settlement of Burford's 
amiable wife. For her every one felt, as it was 
thought that she had always discouraged that ex- 
pensive style of living which had exposed her hus- 
band to envy, and its concomitant detractions, 
amongst those whose increase in wealth had not 
kept pace with his own. He had also carried his 



THE STAGE COACH. 15 

ambition so far, that he had even aspired to repre- 
sent his native city in parliament ; and, as he was 
a violent politician, some of the opposite party not 
only rejoiced in his downfall, but were ready to be- 
lieve and to propagate that he had made a fraudu- 
lent bankruptcy in concert with his friend who had 
absconded, and that he had secured or conveyed 
away from his creditors money to a considerable 
amount. But the tale of calumny, which has no 
foundation in truth, cannot long retain its power to 
injure ; and, in process of time, the feelings of the 
creditors in general were so completely changed 
towards Burford, that some of them who had been 
most decided against signing his certificate, were at 
length brought to confess that it was a matter for re- 
consideration. Therefore, when a distinguished 
friend of his father's, who had been strongly preju- 
diced against him at first, repented of his unjust cre- 
dulity, and, in order to make him amends, offered 
him a share in his own business, all the creditors, 
except two of the principal ones, became willing to 
sign the certificate. Perhaps there is nothing so 
difficult to remove from some minds as suspicions 
of a derogatory nature ; and the creditors in ques- 
tion were envious, worldly men, who piqued them- 
selves on their shrewdness, could not brook the 
idea of being overreached, and were perhaps, not 
sorry that he whose prosperity had excited their 
jealousy, should now be humbled before them as a 
dependant and a suppliant. However, even they 
began to be tired at length of holding out against the 
opinion of so many ; and Burford had the comfort 
of being informed, after he had been some months 
in Wales, that matters were in train to enable him 
to get into business again, with restored credit and 
renewed prospects. 



16 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" Then, who knows, Anna," said he to his wife, 
" but that in a few years I shall be able, by indus- 
try and economy, to pay all that I owe, both princi- 
pal and interest ? for, till I have done so I shall 
not be really happy ; and then poverty will be rob- 
bed of its sting."-—" Not only so," she replied, — 
" we could never have given our children a better 
inheritance than this proof of their father's strict in- 
tegrity ; and, surely, my dear husband, a blessing 
will attend thy labours and intentions," — " I humbly 
trust that it will." — " Yes," she continued ; " our 
change of fortune has humbled our pride of heart, 
and the cry of our contrition and humility has not 
ascended in vain." — " Our pride of heart !" re- 
plied Burford, tenderly embracing her ; " it was /, 
I alone, who deserved chastisement, and I cannot 
bear to hear thee blame thyself ; but it is like thee, 
Anna, — thou art ever kind, ever generous ; how- 
ever, as I like to be obliged to thee, I am contented 
that thou shouldst talk of our pride and our chas- 
tisement." While these hopes were uppermost in 
the minds of this amiable couple, and were cheering 
the weak mind of Burford's mother, which, as it 
had been foolishly elated by prosperity, was now 
as improperly depressed by adversity, Annabel had 
been passing several months at the house of a 
school-fellow some miles from her father's dwelling. 
The vain girl had felt the deepest mortification at 
this blight to her worldly prospects, and bitterly la- 
mented being no longer able to talk of her grand- 
mother's villa and carriages, and her father's hot- 
houses and grounds ; nor could she help repining 
at the loss of those indulgences to which she had 
been accustomed. She was therefore delighted to 
leave home on a visit, and very sorry when unex- 
pected circumstances in her friend's family obliged 



THE STAGE COACH. x 17 

her to return sooner than she intended. She was 
compelled also to return by herself in a public 
coach, — a great mortification to her still existing 
pride ; but she had now no pretensions to travel 
otherwise, and found it necessary to submit to cir- 
cumstances. — In the coach were one young man. 
and two elderly ones ; and her companions seemed 
so willing to pay her attention, and make her jour- 
ney pleasant to her, that Annabel, who always be- 
lieved herself an object of admiration, was soon con- 
vinced that she had made a conquest of the youth, 
and that the others thought her a very sweet crea- 
ture. She therefore, gave way to all her loqua- 
cious vivacity ; she hummed tunes in order to show 
that she could sing ; she took out her pencil and 
sketched wherever they stopped to change horses, 
and talked of her own boudoir , her own maid, and 
all the past glories of her state, as if they still exist- 
ed. In short, she tried to impress her companions 
with a high idea of her consequence, and as if un- 
usual and unexpected circumstances had led her to 
travel incog., while she put in force all her attrac- 
tions against their poor condemned hearts. What 
an odious thing is a coquette of sixteen ! and such 
was Annabel Burford. Certain it is, that she be- 
came an object of great attention to the gentlemen 
with her, but of admiration, probably, to the young 
man alone, who, in her youthful beauty, might pos- 
sibly overlook her obvious defects. During the 
journey, one of the elderly gentlemen opened a bas- 
ket which stood near him, containing some fine hot- 
house grapes and flowers. " There, young lady," 
said he to her, " did you ever see such fruit as this 
before ?" " Oh dear, yes, in my papa's grapery." 
" Indeed ! but did you ever see such fine flowers ?'" 
2* 



18 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" Oh dear, yes, in papa's succession-houses. There 
is nothing, 1 assure you, of that sort," she added, 
drawing up her head with a look of ineffable con- 
ceit, " that I am not accustomed to :" — conde- 
scending, however, at the same time, to eat some 
of the grapes, and accept some of the flowers. 

It was natural that her companions should now 
be very desirous of finding out what princess in dis- 
guise was deigning to travel in a manner so un- 
worthy of her ; and when they stopped within a few 
miles of her home, one of the gentlemen, having 
discovered that she was known to a passenger on 
the top of the coach, who was about to leave it, got 
out, and privately asked him who she was. " Bur- 
ford ! Burford !" cried he, when he heard the an- 
swer ; " what ! the daughter of Burford the bank- 
rupt ?" — " Yes, the same." — With a frowning brow 
he re-entered the coach, and, when seated, whis- 
pered the old gentleman next him ; and both of 
them, having exchanged glances of sarcastic and in- 
dignant meaning, looked at Annabel with great sig- 
nificance. Nor was it long before she observed a 
marked change in their manner towards her. 
They answered her with abruptness, and even with 
reluctance ; till, at length, the one who had interro- 
gated her acquaintance on the coach said, in a sar- 
castic tone, " I conclude that you were speaking 
just now, young lady, of the fine things which were 
once yours. You have no graperies and succession- 
houses now, I take it." — •" Dear me ! why not, 
sir ?" replied the /conscious girl, in a trembling 
voice.- — " Why not ? Why, excuse my freedom, 
but are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
bankrupt ?" Never was child more tempted to 
deny her parentage than Annabel was ; but, though 
with great reluctance, she faltered out, " Yes ; and 



THE STAGE COACH, 19 

to be sure, my father was once unfortunate ; but " 
— here she looked at her young and opposite neigh- 
bour ; and, seeing that his look of admiring respect 
was exchanged for one of ill-suppressed laughter, 
she felt irresistibly urged to add, " But we are 
very well off now, I assure you ; and our present 
residence is so pretty ! Such a sweet garden ! and 
such a charming hot-house !" 

" Indeed !" returned the old man, with a signifi- 
cant nod to his friend ; " well, then, let your papa 
take care he does not make his house too hot to hold 
him, and that another house be not added to his list 
of residences." Here he laughed heartily at his 
own wit, and was echoed by his companion. "But, 
pray, how long has he been thus again favoured by 
fortune ?" — " Oh dear ! I cannot say ; but, for 
some time ; and I assure you our style of living is 
very complete." — " I do not doubt it ; for chil- 
dren and fools speak truth, says the proverb ; and 
sometimes," aided he in a low voice, " the child 
and the fool a\\3 the same person." — " So, so," he 
muttered asidf i to the other traveller ; " gardens ! 
hot-house ! "tiofiiage ! swindling, specious rascal !" 
But Annabeag'Veard only the first part of the sen- 
tence : and t ng quite satisfied that she had recov- 
ered all her consequence in the eyes of her young 
beau .by two or three white lies, as she termed them 
(flights of fancy, in which she was apt to indulge,) 
she resumed her attack on his heart, and continued 
to converse, in her most seducing manner, till the 
coach stopped, according to her desire, at a cot- 
tage by the road-side, where, as she said, her fath- 
er's groom was to meet her, and take her portman- 
teau. The truth was, that she did not choose to 
be set down at her own humble home, which was 
at the further end of the village, because it would 



20 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

not only tell the tale of her fallen fortunes, but 
would prove the falsehood of what she had been 
asserting. When the coach stopped, she exclaim- 
ed, with well acted surprise, " Dear me ! how 
strange that the servant is not waiting for me ! But, 
it does not signify ; I can stop here till he comes." 
She then left the coach, scarcely greeted by her 
elderly companions, but followed, as she fancied, 
by looks of love from the youth, who handed her out, 
and expressed his great regret at parting with her. 
The parents, meanwhile, were eagerly expecting 
her return ; for though the obvious defects in her 
character gave them excessive pain, and they were 
resolved to leave no measures untried in order to 
eradicate them, they had missed her amusing vivac- 
ity ; and even their low and confined dwelling was 
rendered cheerful, when, with her sweet and bril- 
liant tones, she went carolling about the house. 
Besides, she was coming, for the first time, alone 
and unexpected ; and, as the coach was later than 
usual, the anxious tenderness of theipaternal heart 
was worked up to a high pitch of fo t'ng, and they 
were even beginning to share the fr astic fears of 
the impatient grandmother, when thJs, aw the coach 
stop at a distant turn of the road, and soon after be- 
held Annabel coming towards them ; who was 
fondly clasped to those affectionate bosoms, for 
which her unprincipled falsehoods, born of the most 
contemptible vanity, had prepared fresh trials and 
fresh injuries : for her elderly companions were 
her father's principal and relentless creditors, who 
had been down to Wynstaye on business, and were 
returning thence, to London ; intending when they 
arrived there to assure Sir James Aiberry, — 
that friend of Burford's father, who resided in Lon- 
don, and wished to take him into partnership, — that 



THE STAGE COACH. 21 

they were no longer averse to sign his certificate ; 
being at length convinced he was a calumniated 
man. But now all their suspicions were renewed 
and confirmed ; since it was easier for them to be- 
lieve that Burford was still the villain which they al- 
ways thought him, than that so young a girl should 
have told so many falsehoods at the mere impulse 
of vanity. They therefore became more inveter- 
ate against her poor father than ever ; and though 
their first visit to the metropolis was to the gentle- 
man in question, it was now impelled by a wish to 
injure, not to serve, him. How differently would 
they have felt, had the vain and false Annabel al- 
lowed the coach to set her down at her father's low- 
ly door ! and had they beheld the interior arrange- 
ment of his house and family ! Had they seen neat- 
ness and order giving attraction to cheap and ordi- 
nary furniture ; had they beheld the simple meal 
spread out to welcome the wanderer home, and the 
Bible and Prayerbook ready for the evening ser- 
vice, which was deferred till it could be shared 
again with her whose return would add fervour to 
the devotion of that worshipping family, and would 
call forth additional expressions of thanksgiving ! 

The dwelling of Burford was that of a man im- 
proved by trials past ; — of one who looked forward 
with thankfulness and hope to the renewed posses- 
sion of a competence, in the belief that he should 
now be able to make a wiser and holier use of it 
than he had done before. His wife had needed 
no such lesson ; though, in the humility of her 
heart, she thought otherwise ; and she had helped 
her husband to impress on the yielding minds of 
her boys, who (happier than their sister) had never 
left her, that a season of worldly humiliation is more 
safe and blessed than one of worldly prosperity— 



22 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

while their Welch cottage and wild mountain gar- 
den had been converted, by her resources and her 
example, into a scene of such rural industry and 
innocent amusement, that they could no longer re- 
gret the splendid house and grounds which they 
had been obliged to resign. The grandmother, in- 
deed, had never ceased to mourn and to murmur ; 
and, to her, the hope of seeing a return of brighter 
days, by means of a new partnership, was beyond 
measure delightful. But she was doomed to be 
disappointed, through those errors in the child of 
her adoption which she had at least encouraged, if 
she had not occasioned. 

It was with even clamorous delight, that Anna- 
bel, after this absence of a few months, was wel- 
comed by her brothers : the parents' welcome was 
of a quieter, deeper nature ; while the grandmo- 
ther's first solicitude was to ascertain how she look- 
ed ; and having convinced herself that she was re- 
turned handsomer than ever, her joy was as loud 
as that of the boys.—" Do come hither, Bell," said 
one of her brothers — " we have so much to show 
you ! The old cat has such nice kittens !" — 
" Yes ; and my rabbits have all young ones !" cried 
another. — " And I and mamma," cried the third 
boy, " have put large stones into the bed of the 
mountain rill ; so now it makes such a nice noise 
as it flows over them ! Do come, Bell ; do, pray, 
come with us !" — But the evening duties were first 
to be performed ; and performed they were, with 
more than usual solemnity : but after them Anna- 
bel had to eat her supper ; and she was so engross- 
ed in relating her adventures in the coach, and with 
describing the attentions of her companions, that 
her poor brothers were not attended to. In vain 
did her mother say, " Do, Annabel go with your 



THE STAGE COACH. 2$ 

brothers !" and add, " Go now ; for it is near their 
bedtime !" She was too fond of hearing herself 
talk, and of her grandmother's flatteries, to be will- 
ing to leave the room ; and though her mother was 
disappointed at her selfishness, she could not bear 
to chide her on the first night of her return. 

When Annabel was alone with her grandmother, 
she ventured to communicate to her what a fearful 
consciousness of not having done right had led her 
to conceal from her parents ; and, after relating all 
that had passed relative to the fruit and flowers, 
she repeated the cruel question of the old man, 
" Are you not the daughter of Mr. Burford the 
bankrupt ?" and owned what her reply was : on 
which her grandmother exclaimed, with great emo- 
tion, " Unthinking girl ! you know not what in- 
jury you may have done your father !" She then 
asked for a particular description of the persons of 
the old men, saying, " Well, well, it cannot be 
helped now— I may be mistaken ; but be sure not 
to tell your mother what you have told me." 

For some days after Annabel's return, all went 
on well ; and their domestic felicity would have 
been so complete, that Burford and his wife would 
have much disliked any idea of change, had their 
income been sufficient to give their boys good edu- 
cation ; but, as it was only just sufficient for their 
maintenance, they looked forward with anxious ex- 
pectation to the arrival of a summons to London, 
and to their expected residence there. Still the 
idea of leaving their present abode was really pain- 
ful to all, save Annabel and her grandmother. 
They thought the rest of the family devoid of pro- 
per spirit, and declared that living in Wales was not 
living at all. 

But a stop was now put to eager anticipations 



24 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

on the one hand, or of tender regrets on the other ; 
for, while Burford was expecting daily to receive 
remittances from Sir James Alberry, to enable him 
to transport himself and his family to the metropo- 
lis, that gentleman wrote to him as follows : — 

" Sir, 
" All connection between us is for ever at end ; 
and I have given the share in my business, which 
was intended for you. to the worthy man who has 
so long solicited it. I thought that I had done you 
injustice, sir ; I wished therefore to make you 
amends. But I find you are what you are repre- 
sented to be, a fraudulent bankrupt ; and your cer- 
tificate now will never be signed. Should you won- 
der what has occasioned this change in my feelings 
and proceedings, I am at liberty to inform you that 
your daughter travelled in a stage coach, a few 
days ago, with your two principal creditors ; and 1 
am desired to add, that children and fools speak 
truth. 

" James Alberry." 

When Burford had finished reading this letter, 
it fell from his grasp, and clasping his hands con- 
vulsively together, he exclaimed, " Ruined and dis- 
graced for ever !" then rushed into his own cham- 
ber. His terrified wife followed him with the un- 
read letter in her hand, looking the enquiries which 
she could not utter.—" Read that," he replied* 
" and see that Sir James Alberry deems me a vil- 
lain !" She did read, and with a shaking frame ; 
but it was not the false accusation of her husband, 
nor the loss of the expected partnership, that thus 
agitated her firm nerves, and firmer mind ; it was 
the painful conviction, that Annabel, by some means 
unknown to her, had been the cause of this mis- 



THE STAGE COACH. 25 

chief to her father ; — a conviction which consider- 
ably increased Burford's agony, when she pointed 
out the passage in Sir James's letter alluding to 
Annabel, who was immediately summoned, and de- 
sired to explain Sir James's mysterious meaning. 
* Dear me ! papa," cried she, changing colour, 
a I am sure, if I had thought, — 1 am sure I could 
not think, — nasty, ill-natured old man ! I am sure 
I only said — ." " But what did you say V cried 
her agitated father. — " I can explain all," said his 
mother, who had entered uncalled for, and read the 
letter. She then repeated what Annabel had told, 
but softening it as much as she could ;— however, 
she told enough to show the agonizing parents that 
their child was not only the cause of disappointment 
and disgrace to them, but a mean, vain-glorious, 
and despicable liar ! " The only amends which you 
can now make us," said Burford, " is to tell the 
whole truth, unhappy child ! and then we must see 
whatcan be done ; for my reputation must be clear- 
ed, even at the painful expense of exposing you." 
Nor was it long before the mortified Annabel, with 
a heart awakened to contrition by her mother's 
gentle reproofs, and the tender teachings of a mo- 
ther's love, made an ample confession of all that 
had passed in the stage coach ; on hearing which, 
Burford instantly resolved to set off for London, 
But how was he to get thither ? He had no mo- 
ney ; as he had recently been obliged to pay some 
debts of his still thoughtless and extravagant mo- 
ther ; nor could he bear to borrow of his neigh- 
bour what he was afraid he might be for some 
time unable to return. " Cruel, unprincipled girl!" 
cried he, as he paced their little room in agony ; 
" see to what misery thou hast reduced thy fath- 
er ! However, I must go to London immediately, 
though it be on foot." — " Well, really, I don't see 
3 



26 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

any very great harm in what the poor child did," 
cried his mother, distressed at seeing Annabel's 
tears. " It was very trying to her to be reproach- 
ed with her father's bankruptcy and her fallen 
fortunes ; and it was very natural for her to say 
what she did.'' — " Natural !" exclaimed the indig- 
nant mother ; " natural for my child to utter false- 
hood on falsehood, and at the instigation of a mean 
vanity ! Natural for my child to shrink from the 
avowal of poverty, which was unattended with dis- 
grace ! Oh ! make us not more wretched than 
we were before, by trying to lessen Annabel's 
faults in her own eyes ! Our only comfort is the 
hope that she is ashamed of herself."—" But neith- 
er her shame nor penitence," cried Burford, 
" will give me the quickest means of repairing the 
effects of her error. However, as I cannot ride, 
I must walk, to London ;" while his wife, alarmed 
at observing the dew of weakness which stood up- 
on his brow, and the faint flush which overspread 
his cheek, exclaimed, " But will not writing to Sir 
James be sufficient ?"-" No. My appearance 
will corroborate my assurances too well. The only 
writing necessary will be a detail from Annabel of 
all that passed in the coach, and a confession of 
her fault."— u What ! exact from your child such 
a disgraceful avowal, William !" cried the angry 
grandmother.—" Yes ; for it is a punishment due 
to her transgression ; and she may think herself 
happy if its consequences end here." " Here's a 
fuss, indeed, about a little harmless puffing and 
white lying 1"—" Harmless !" replied Burford, in 
a tone of indignation, while his wife exclaimed, in 
the agony of a wounded spirit, " Oh ! mother, mo- 
ther ! do not make us deplore, more than we al- 
ready do. that fatal, hour when we consented to 
surrender our dearest duties at the call of compas* 



THE STAGE COACH. 27 

sion for your sorrows, and entrusted the care of 
our child's precious soul to your erroneous tender- 
ness ! But, I trust that Annabel deeply feels her 
sinfulness, and that the effects of a mistaken edu- 
cation may have been counteracted in time." 

The next day, having procured the necessary 
document from Annabel, Burford set off on his 
journey, intending to travel occasionally on the 
tops of coaches, being well aware that he was not 
in a state of health to walk the whole way. 

In the meanwhile, Sir James Alberry, the Lon- 
don merchant, to whom poor Burford was then 
pursuing his long and difficult journey, was begin- 
ning to suspect that he had acted hastily ; and, 
perhaps, unjustly. He had written his distressing 
letter in the moments of his first indignation, on 
hearing the statement of the two creditors ; and 
he had moreover written it under their dictation ; 
— and, as the person who had long wished to be 
admitted into partnership with him happened to 
call at the same time, and had taken advantage of 
Burford's supposed delinquency, he had, without 
further hesitation, granted his request. But as 
Sir James, though a rash, was a kind-hearted, man, 
when his angry feelings had subsided, the rebound 
of them was in favour of the poor accused ; and he 
reproached himself for having condemned and 
punished a supposed culprit, before he was even 
heard in his defence. Therefore, having invited 
Burford's accusers to return to dinner, he dismiss- 
ed them as soon as he could, and went in search of 
his wife, wishing, but not expecting, his hasty 
proceeding to receive the approbation of her can- 
did spirit and discriminating judgment. "What 
is all this ?" cried Lady Alberry, when he had 
done speaking. " Is it possible that, on the evi- 
dence of these two men, who have shown them- 



,28 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

selves inveterate enemies of the poor bankrupt, 
you have broken your promise to him, and pledg- 
ed it to another ?" — " Yes ; and my letter to Bur- 
ford is gone. I wish I had shown it to you before 
it went ; but, surely Burford's child could not 
have told them falsehoods."-—" That depends on 
her education." — " True, Jane ; and she was 
brought up, you know, by that paragon, her mo- 
ther, who cannot do wrong." — " No ; she was 
brought up by that weak woman, her grandmoth- 
er, who is not likely, i fear, ever to do right. Had 
her pious mother educated her, I should have been 
sure that Annabel Burford could not have told a 
lie. However, I shall see, and interrogate the ac- 
cusers. In the meanwhile 1 must regret your ex- 
cessive precipitancy " 

As Lady Al berry was a woman who scrupu- 
lously performed all her religious and moral du- 
des, she was, consequently, always observant of 
that holy command. " not to take up a reproach 
against her neighbour." She was, therefore, very 
unwilling to believe the truth of this charge against 
Burford ; and thought that it was more likely an 
ill educated girl should tell a fatsehood, which had 
also, perhaps, been magnified by involuntary ex- 
aggeration, than that the husband of such a wo- 
man as Anna Burford should be the delinquent 
which his old creditors described him to be.' For 
she had in former days, been thrown into society 
with Burford's wife, and had felt attracted towards 
her by the strongest of all sympathies, that of en- 
tire unity on those subjects most connected with 
our welfare here, and hereafter; those sympathies 
which can convert strangers into friends, and draw 
them together in the enduring ties of pure, Chris- 
tian love. " No, no," said she to herself; "the 
beloved husband of such a woman cannot be a 



THE STAGE COACH. 29 

villain :" and she awaited, with benevolent impa- 
tience, the arrival of her expected guest. 

They came, accompanied by Charles Danvers, 
Annabel's young fellow-traveller, who was nephew 
to one of them ; and Lady Alberry lost no time in 
drawing from them an exact detail of all that had 
passed. u And this girl, you say, was a forward, 
conceited, set-up being, full of herself and her ac- 
complishments ; in short, the creature of vanity." 
— " Yes," replied one of the old men, 8 it was 
quite a comedy to look at her and hear her !" — - 
M But what says my j^oung friend ?" — " The same. 
She is very pretty ; but a model of affectation, 
boasting, and vanity. Now she was hanging her 
head on one side — then looking languishingly with 
her eyes ; — and when my uncle, coarsely, as I 
thought, talked of her father as a bankrupt, her 
expression of angrv mortification was so ludicrous, 
that I could scarcely help laughing. Nay, I do 
assure you," he continued, " that had we been 
left alone a few minutes, I should have been made 
the confidant of her love-affairs ; for she sighed 
deeply once, and asked me, with an affected lisp, 
if I did not think it a dangerous thing to have a too 
susceptible heart ?*' As he said this, after the 
manner of Annabel, both the old men exclaimed, 
" Admirable ! that is she to the life ! I think that I 
see her and hear her !" — " But, I dare say," said 
Lady Alberry gravely, " that you paid her com- 
pliments, and pretended to admire her notwith- 
standing." — "1 own it; for how could I refuse the 
incense which every look and gesture demanded ?" 
— " A principle of truth, young man ! would have 
enabled you to do it. What a fine lesson it would 
be, for poor flattered women, if we could know 
how meanly men think of us, even when they flat- 
ter us the most." — " But, dear Lady Alberry, this 



30 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

girl seemed to me a mere child ; a coquette of the 
nursery : still, had she been older, her evident 
vanity would have secured me against her beau- 
ty." — kt You are mistaken, Charles ; this child is 
almost seventeen. But now, gentlemen, as just 
men, I appeal to you all, whether it is not more 
likely that this vain-glorious girl told lies, than that 
her father, the husband of one of the best of wo- 
men, should be guilty of the grossest dishonesty ?" 
— tv I must confess, Jane, that you have convinced 
me," said Sir James ; but the two creditors only 
frowned, and spoke not. " But consider," said 
this amiable advocate ; " if the girl's habitation 
was so beautiful, was it not inconsistent with her 
boasting propensities that she should not choose to 
be set down at it ? And if her father still had 
carriages and servants, would they not have been 
sent to meet her ? And if he were really rich, 
would she have been allowed to travel alone in a 
stage coach ? — Impossible ; and I conjure you to 
suspend your severe judgment of an unfortunate 
man, till you have sent some one to see how he 
really lives." 

" J am forced to return to Wynstaye to-mor- 
row 5 " growled out Charles's uncle ; " therefore, 
suppose I go myself." — "We had fixed to go into 
Wales ourselves next week," replied Lady Alber- 
ry, " on a visit to a dear friend who lives not far 
from Wynstaye. Therefore, what say you, Sir 
James ? Had we not better go with our friend ? 
For if you have done poor Burford injustice, the 
sooner *you make him reparation, and in person, 
the better." To this proposal Sir James gladly 
assented ; and they set off for Wales the next day, 
accompanied by the uncle and the nephew. 

As Lady Alberry was going to her chamber, on 
the second night of their journey, she was startled 



THE STAGE COACH* 31 

by the sound of deep groans, and a sort of deliri- 
ous raving, from a half-open door. '* Surely," said 
she to the landlady, who was conducting her, 
{i there is some one very ill in that room." — " Oh 
dear ! yes, my lady; a poor man who was picked 
up on the road yesterday. He had walked all the 
way from the heart of Wales, till he was so tired, 
he got on a coach ; and he supposes that, from 
weakness he fell off in the night ; and not being 
missed, he lay till he was found and brought hith- 
er." — '■' Has any medical man seen him ?" — 
K Not yet ; for our surgeon lives a good way off; 
and, as he had his senses when he first came, we 
hoped he was not much hurt. He was able to tell 
us that he only wanted a garret, as he was very 
poor; and yet, my lady, he looks and speaks so 
like a gentleman 1" — tw Poor creature ! he must be 
attended to, and a medical man sent for directly, 
as he is certainly not sensible now." — " Hark ! 
he is raving again, and all about his wife, and I 
cannot tell what." — " I should like to see him," 
said Lady Alberry, whose heart always yearned 
towards the afflicted ; "and I think that 1 am my- 
self no bad doctor." Accordingly, she entered the 
room just as the sick man exclaimed, in his deliri- 
um, " Cruel Sir James ! I a fraudulent .... 
Oh ! my dearest Anna !" .... and Lady Al- 
berry recognized, in the poor raving being before 
her, the calumniated Burford ! " J know him !" 
she cried, bursting into tears ; " we will be an- 
swerable for all expenses." She then went in 
search of Sir James ; and having prepared him 
as tenderly as she could for the painful scene 
which awaited him, she led him to the bedside of 
the unconscious invalid ; — then, while Sir James 
shocked and distressed beyond measure, interro- 
gated the landlady, Lady Alberry examined the 



32 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

nearly threadbare coat of the supposed rich man. 
which lay on the bed, and searched for the slen- 
derly filled purse, of which he had himself spoken. 
She found there Sir James's letter, which had, she 
doubted not, occasioned his journey and his ill- 
ness ; and which, therefore, in an agony of re- 
pentant feeling, her husband tore into atoms. In 
the same pocket he found Annabel's confession ; 
and when they left the chamber, having vainly 
waited in hopes of being recognized by the poor 
invalid, they returned to their fellow-travellers, 
carrying with them the evidences of Burford's 
scanty means, in corroboration of the tale of suf- 
fering and fatigue which they had to relate. 
" See I" said Lady Alberry, holding up the coat, 
and emptying the purse on the table, w are these 
signs of opulence ? and is travelling on foot, in a 
hot June day, a proof of splendid living ?" While 
the harsh creditor, as he listened to the tale of 
delirium, and read the confession of Annabel, re- 
gretted the hasty credence which he had given to 
her falsehoods. 

Bui what was best to be done ? To send for 
Burford's wife ; — and, till she arrived to nurse 
him, Sir James and Lady Alberry declared that 
they would not leave the inn. It was therefore 
agreed that the nephew should go to Burford's 
house in the barouche, and escort his wife back. 
He did so ; and while Annabel, lost in painful 
thought, was walking on the road, she saw the 
barouche driving up, with her young fellow-travel- 
ler in it. As it requires great suffering to subdue 
such overweening vanity as Annabel's, her first 
thought, on seeing him, was, that her youthful 
beau was a young heir, who had travelled in dis- 
guise, and was now come in state to make her an 
offer ! She, therefore, blushed with pleasure as 



THE STAGE COACH. 33 

he approached, and received his bow with a coun- 
tenance of joy. But his face expressed no an- 
swering pleasure ; and, coldly passing her, he said 
his business was with her mother, who, alarmed, 
she scarcely knew why, stood trembling at the 
door; nor was she less alarmed when the feeling 
youth told his errand, in broken and faltering ac- 
cents, and delivered Lady Alberry's letter. " An- 
nabel must go with me !" said her mother, in a 
deep and solemn tone. Then lowering her voice, 
because unwilling to reprove her before a stran- 
ger, she added, " Yes, my child ! thou must go, 
to see the effects of thy errors, and take sad, but 
salutary, warning for the rest of thy life. We shall 
not detain you long, sir," she continund, turning to 
Charles Danvers; " our slender wardrobe can be 
soon prepared." 

In a short time, the calm, but deeply suffering, 
wife, and the weeping humbled daughter, were on 
their road to the inn. The mother scarcely spoke 
during the whole of the journey ; but she seemed 
to pray a great deal ; and the young man was so 
affected, with the subdued anguish of the one, and 
the passionate grief of the other, that, he declared 
to Lady Alberry, he had never been awakened to 
such serious thought before, and hoped to be the 
better for the journey through the whole of his 
existence ; while, in her penitent sorrow, he felt 
inclined to forget Annabel's fault, coquetry, and 
affectation. 

When they reached the inn, the calmness of the 
wife was entirely overcome at the sight of Lady 
Alberry, who opened her arms to receive her 
with the kindness of an attached friend ; whisper- 
ing, as she did so, " He has been sensible ; and 
he knew Sir James; knew him as an affectionate 
friend and nurse !" — " Gracious heaven, I thank 



34 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

thee !" she replied, hastening to his apartment, 
leading the reluctant Annabel along. But he did 
not know them ; and his wife was at first speech- 
less with sorrow : at length recovering her calm- 
ness, she said," See ! dear unhappy girl ! to what 
thy sinfulness has reduced thy fond father ! Hum- 
ble thyself, my child, before the Great Being 
whom thou hast offended ; and own his mercy in 
the awful warning !" " I am humbled, I am 
warned, I trust," cried Annabel, falling on her 
knees ; u but, if he die, what will become of me?" 
— " What will become of us all?" replied the mo- 
ther, shuddering at the bare idea of losing him, 
but preparing, with forced composure, for her im- 
portant duties. Trying ones indeed they were, 
through many days and nights, that the wife and 
daughter had to watch beside the bed of the un- 
conscious Burford. The one heard herself kindly 
invoked, and tenderly desired, and her absence 
wondered at ; while the other never heard her 
name mentioned, during the ravings of fever, with- 
out heart-rending upbraidings, and just reproofs. 
But Burford's life was granted to the prayers of 
agonizing affection ; and, when recollection re- 
turned, he had the joy of knowing that his reputa- 
tion was cleared, that his angry creditors were be- 
come his kind friends, and that Sir James Alber- 
ry lamented, with bitter regret, that be could no 
longer prove his confidence in hirn by making him 
his partner. But notwithstanding this blight to 
his prospects, Burford piously blessed the event 
which had had so salutary an influence on his offend- 
ing child ; and had taught her a lesson which she 
was not likely to forget. Lady Alberry, how- 
ever, thought that the lesson was not yet sufficient- 
ly complete ; for, though Annabel might be cured 
of lying by the consequences of her falsehoods, 



THE STAGE COACH. 35 

the vanity which prompted them might still re- 
main uncorrected. Therefore, as Annabel had 
owned that it was the wish not to lose consequence 
in the eyes of her supposed admirer, which had 
led her to her last fatal falsehood, Lady Alberry, 
with the mother's approbation, contrived a plan 
for laying the axe if possible to the root of her 
vanity ; and she took the earliest opportunity of 
asking Charles Dan ers, in her presence, and that 
of her mother, some particulars concerning what 
passed in the coach, and his opinion on the sub- 
ject. As she expected, he gave a softened and fa- 
vourable representation; and would not allow that 
he did not form a favourable opinion of his fair 
companion. "Who,' Charles," said she, " do 
you pretend to deny that you mimicked her voice 
and manner?" She then repeated all that he had 
said, and his declaration that her evident vanity 
and coquetry steeled his heart against her, copy- 
ing, at the same time, his accurate mimickry of 
Annabel's manner ; nor did she rest till she had 
drawn from him a full avowal that what he had 
asserted was true ; for, Lady Alberry was not a 
woman to be resisted ; while the mortified, hum- 
bled, but corrected Annabel, could only hide her 
face in her mother's bosom ; who, while she felt 
for the salutary pangs inflicted on her, mingled 
caresses with her tears, and whispered in her ear, 
that the mortification which she endured was but 
for a moment ; and the benefit would be, she 
trusted, of eternal duration. The lesson was now- 
complete indeed. Annabel found that she had 
not only, by her lies of vanity, deprived her fa- 
ther of a lucrative business, but that she had ex- 
posed herself to the ridicule and contempt of that 
very being who had been the cause of her error j 
and, in the depth of her humbled and contrite 



36 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

heart, she resolved from that moment to struggle 
with her besetting sins, and subdue them. Nor 
was the resolve ot that trying moment ever brok- 
en. But when her father, whose original destina- 
tion had been the church, was led, by his own 
wishes, to take orders, and was, in process of time, 
inducted into a considerable living, in the gift of 
Sir James Alberry, Annabel rivalled her mother 
in performing the duties of her new station : and, 
when she became a wife and mother herself, she 
had a mournful satisfaction in relating the above 
story to her children ; bidding them beware of all 
lying; but more especially of that common lie, 
the lie of vanity, whether it be active or passive. 
" Not." said she, " that retributive justice in this 
world, like that which attended mine, may always 
follow ycur falsehoods, or those of others ; but 
because all lying is contrary to the moral law of 
God ; and that the liar, as scripture tells us, is 
not only liable to punishment nnd disgrace here, 
but will be the object of certain and more awful 
punishment in the world to come." 

The following tale illustrates the passive lie of 

VANITY. 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 

There are two sayings — the one derived from 
divine, the other from human, authority — the truth 
of which is continually forced upon us by experi- 
ence. They are these : — " A prophet is not with- 
out honour, except in his own country ;" and "No 
man is a hero to his valet de-chambre." — " Fa- 
miliarity breeds contempt," is also a proverb to 
the same effect ; and they all three bear upon the 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. Si 

tendency in our natures to undervalue the talents, 
and the claims to distinction, of those with whom 
we are closely connected and associated ; and on 
our incapability to believe that they, whom we have 
always considered as our equals only, or perhaps 
as our inferiors, can be to the rest of the world 
objects of admiration and respect. 

No one was more convinced of the truth of these 
sayings than Darcy Pennington, the only child of 
a pious and virtuous couple, who thought him the 
best of sons, and one of the first of geniuses; but, 
as they were not able to persuade the rest of the 
family of this latter truth, when they died, Dar- 
cy's uncle and guardian insisted on his going into 
a merchant's counting-house in London, instead of 
being educated for one of the learned professions. 
Darcy had a mind too well disciplined to rebel 
against his guardian's authority. He therefore 
submitted to his allotment in silence ; resolving 
that his love of letters and the muses should not 
interfere with his duties to his employer, but he 
devoted all his leisure hours to literary pursuits ; 
and, as he had real talents, he was at length rais- 
ed from the unpaid contributor to the poetical col- 
umns in the newspaper, to the paid writer in a pop- 
ular magazine ; while his poems, signed Alfred, 
became objects of eager expectation. But Dar- 
cy's own family and friends could not have been 
more surprised at his growing celebrity than he 
himself was : for he was a sincere, humble chris- 
tian ; and, having been accustomed to bow to the 
opinion of those whom he considered as his su- 
periors in intellect and knowledge, he could 
scarcely believe in his own eminence. But it was 
precious to his heart, rather than to his vanity ; 
as it enabled him to indulge those benevolent feel- 
ings, which his small income had hitherto resuain- 
4 



S8 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYJNG. 

ed. At length he published a duodecimo volume 
of poems and hymns, still under the name of Al- 
fred, which was highly praised in reviews and 
journals, and a strong desire was expressed to 
know who the modest, promising, and pious writ- 
er was. 

Notwithstanding, Darcy could not prevail upon 
himself to disclose his name. He visited his na- 
tive town every year, and in the circle of his fami- 
ly and friends, was still considered only as a good 
sort-of lad ,who had been greatly overrated by his 
parents — was just suited for the situation in which 
he had been placed — and was very fortunate to 
have been received into partnership with the mer- 
chant to whom he had been clerk. In vain did Dar- 
cy sometimes endeavour to hint that he was an au- 
thor ; he remembered the contempt with which his 
uncle, and relations, had read one of the earliest 
fruits of his muse, when exhibited by his fond fa- 
ther, and the advice given to burn such stuff, and 
not turn the head of a dull boy, by making him 
fancy himself a genius. Therefore, recollecting 
the wise saying quoted above, he feared that the 
news of his literary celebrity would not be re- 
ceived with pleasure, and that the affection with 
which he was now welcomed might suffer diminu- 
tion. Besides, thought he, — and then his heart rose 
in his throat, with a choking painful- feeling, — those 
tender parents, who would have enjoyed my lit- 
tle fame, are cold, and unconscious now ; and the 
ears, to which my praises would have been sweet 
music, cannot hear; therefore, methinks, I have a 
mournful pleasure in- keeping on that veil, the re- 
moval of which cannot confer pleasure on them." 
— Consequently he remained contented to be 
warmly welcomed at D — for talents of an hum- 
ble sort such as his power for mending toys, mak- 



ONEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 39 

ing kites, and rabbits on the wall; which talents 
endeared him to all the children of his family and 
friends ; and, through them, to their parents. 
Yet it may be asked, was it possible that a young 
man, so gifted, could conceal his abilities from ob- 
servation ? 

Oh, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor 
concerning himself, though he could draw a bill 
for £1000, had never any small change in his 
pocket. Like him, he could write, but he could 
not talk; he was discouraged in a moment; and 
the slightest rebuff made him hesitate to a pain- 
ful degree. He had, however, some flattering mo- 
ments, even amidst his relations and friends ; for 
he heard them repeating his verses and singing 
his songs. He had also far greater joy in hearing 
his hymns in places of public worship ; and then, 
too much choked with grateful emotion to join in 
the devotional chorus himself, he used to feel his 
own soul raised to heaven upon those wings which 
he had furnished for the souls of others. At such 
moments he longed to discover himself as the au- 
thor ; but was withheld by the fear that his songs 
would cease to be admired, and his hymns would 
lose their usefulness, if it were known that he had 
written them. However, he resolved to ftel his 
way ; and once, on hearing a song of his com- 
mended, he ventured to observe, " 1 think I can 
write as good a one." — " You !" cried his uncle ; 
" what a conceited boy! I remember that you used 
to scribble verses when a child ; but I thought you 
had been laughed out of that nonsense." — " My 
dear fellow, nature never meant thee for a poet, 
believe me," said one of his cousins conceitedly, 
— a young collegian. " No, no ; like the girl in 
the drama, thou wouldst make c love ' and ' joy ' 
rhyme, and know no better." — "But I have writ- 



40 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ten, and I can rhyme," replied Darcy, colouring a 
little. — " Indeed !" replied his formal aunt ;" Well, 
Mr. Darcy Pennington, it really would be very 
amusing to see your erudite productions ; perhaps 
you will indulge us some day." — •" 1 will ; and then 
you may probably alter your opinion." Soon after 
Darcy wrote an anonymous prose tale in one vol- 
ume, interspersed with poetry, which had even a 
greater run than his other writings ; and it was at- 
tributed first to one person, and then to another ; 
while his publisher was excessively pressed to de- 
clare the name of the author ; but he did not him- 
self know it, as he only knew Darcy, avowedly. 
under a feigned name. But, at length, Darcy re- 
solved to disclose his secret, at least to his rela- 
tives and friends at D— ; and just as the second 
edition of his tale was nearly completed, he set 
off for his native place, taking with him the man- 
uscript, full of the printer's marks, to prove that he 
was the author of it. 

He had one irresistible motive for thus walking 
out from his incognito, like Homer's deities from 
their cloud. He had fallen in love with his sec- 
ond cousin, Julia V^ane, an heiress, and his uncle's 
ward - 7 and had become jealous of himself, as he 
had. for some months, wooed her in anonymous 
poetry, which she, he found, attributed to a gen- 
tleman in the neighbourhood, whose name he- 
knew not ; and she^had often declared that, such 
was her passion for poetry, he who could woo her 
in beautiful verse was alone likely to win her 
heart. . 

On the very day of his arrival, he said m the 
family circle that he had brought down a little 
manuscript of his own, which he wished to read to 
them. Oh 1 the comical grimaces ! the suppress- 
ed laughter, growing and^swelling, however, till it 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES, 41 

could be restrained no longer, which was the re- 
sult of this request ! And oh ! the looks of con- 
sternation when Darcy produced the manuscript 
from Jiis pocket ! " Why, Darcy," said his un- 
cle, " this is really a word and a blow ; but you 
cannot read it to-night; we are engaged." — " Cer- 
tainly, Mr. Darcy Pennington," said his aunt, " if 
you wish to read your astonishing productions, we 
are bound in civility to hear them ; but we are all 
going to Sir Hugh Belson's, and shall venture to 
take you with us, though it is a great favour and 
privilege to be permitted to go on such an occa- 
sion ; for a gentleman is staying there who has 
written such a sweet book ! It is only just out, 
yet it cannot be had ; because the first edition is 
sold, and the second not finished. So Sir Hugh, 
for whom your uncle is exerting himself against 
the next election, has been so kind as to invite us 
to hear the author read his own work. This gen- 
tleman does not, indeed, own that he wrote it ; 
still he does not deny it ; and it is clear, by his 
manner, that he did write it, and that he would be 
very sorry not to be considered as the writer."— 
" Very well, then ; the pleasure of hearing anoth- 
er author read his own work shall be delayed," 
replied Darcy smiling. " Perhaps, w 7 hen you 
have heard this gentleman's, you will not be so 
eager to read yours, Darcy," said Julia Vane ; 
" for you used to be a modest man." Darcy sigh- 
ed, looked significantly, but remained silent. 

In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Belson's, 
where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to delight 
the company, Darcy recognized the gentleman 
who had been pointed out to him as the author of 
several meagre performances handed about in 
manuscript in certain circles ; which owed their 
celebrity to the birth and fashion of the writer. 
4* 



42 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and to the bribery which is always administered 
to the self-love of those who are the select few' 
chosen to see and judge on such occasions. 

Captain Eustace now prepared to read ; but 
when he named the title of the book which he 
held in his hand, Darcy started from his seat in 
surprise 5 for it was the title of his own work ! 
But there might be two works with the same title ; 
and he sat down again ; but when the reader con- 
tinued, and he could doubt no longer, he again 
started up, and with stuttering eagerness, said, 
u Wh-wh— who, sir, did you say, wrote this 
book ?" — " I have named no names, sir,*' replied 
Eustace conceitedly ; " the author is unknown, 
and wishes to remain so." — " Mr. Darcy Penning- 
ton," cried his aunt, " sit down and be quiet ;" 
and he obeyed. — " Mr. Pennington," said Sir 
Hugh, affectedly, " the violet must be sought, and 
is discovered with difficulty, you know ; for it 
shrinks from observation, and loves the shade. 1 ' 
Darcy bowed assent ; but fixed his eyes on the 
discovered violet before him with such an equivo- 
cal expression, that Eustace was disconcerted; 
and the more so, when Darcy who could not but 
feel the ludicrous situation in which he was plac- 
ed, hid his face in his handkerchief, and was evi- 
dently shaking with laughter. " Mr. Darcy Pen- 
nington, I am really ashamed of you," whispered 
his aunt : and Darcy recovered his composure. 
He had now two hours of great enjoyment. He 
heard that book admirably read which he had in- 
tended to read the next day, and knew that he 
should read ill. He heard that work applauded 
to the skies as the work of another, which would, 
he feared, have been faintly commended, if known 
to be his ; and he saw the fine eyes of the woman 
he loved drowned in tears, by the power of his 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 43 

own simple pathos. The poetry in the book was 
highly admired also ; and, when Eustace paused 
to take breath, Julia whispered in his ear, " Cap- 
tain Eustace is the gentleman who, I have every 
reason to believe, wrote some anonymous poetry 
sent me by the post; for Captain Eustace pays 
me, as you see, marked attention ; and as he de- 
nies that he wrote the verses, exactly as he denies 
that he wrote the book which he is now reading, 
it is very evident that he wrote both." — " 1 dare 
say," replied Darcy, colouring with resentment, 
" that he as much wrote the one as he wrote the 
ether." — " What do you mean, Darcy ? There 
can be no doubt of the fact ; and I own- that I can- 
not be insensible to such talent ; for poetry and 
poets are my passion, you know ; and in his au- 
thorship I forget his plainness Do you not think 
that a woman would be justified in loving a man 
who writes so morally, so piously, and so delight- 
fully ?" — " Certainly," replied Darcy, eagerly 
grasping her hand, " provided his conduct be in 
unison with his writings ;and I advise you to give 
the writer in question your whole heart" 

After the reading was over, the delighted audi- 
ence crowded round the reader, whose manner 
of receiving their thanks was such, as to make 
every one but Darcy believe the work was his 
own 5 and never was the passive lie of vanity 
more completely exhibited ; while Darcy, intoxi- 
cated, as it were, by the feelings of gratified au- 
thorship, and the hopes excited by Julia's words, 
thanked him again and again for the admirable 
manner in which he had read the book ; declare 
ing, with great earnestness, that he could not have 
done it such justice himself ; adding, that this 
evening was the happiest of his life. 

" Mr. Darcy Pennington, what ails you?" cried 



44 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

bis aunt ; " you really are not like 3'ourself P* — 
" Hold your tongue, Darcy," said his uncle, draw- 
ing him on one side ; " do not be such a forward 
puppy ; — who ever questioned, or cared, whether 
you could have done it jnstice or not ? But here 
is the carriage ; and I am glad you have no long- 
er an opportunity of thus exposing yourself by 
your literary and critical raptures, which sit as ill 
upon you as the caressings of the ass in the fable 
did on him, when he pretended to compete with 
the lapdog in fondling his master." 

During the drive home, Darcy did not speak a 
word; not only because he was afraid of his se- 
vere uncle and aunt, but, because he was medi- 
tating how he should make that discovery, on the 
success of which hung his dearest hopes. He was 
also communing with his own heart, in order to 
bring it back to that safe humility out of which it 
had been led by the flattering, and unexpected, 
events of the evening. " Well " said he, while 
they drew round the fire, " as it is not late, sup- 
pose I read my work to you now. I assure you 
that it is quite as good as that which you have 
heard." — u Mr. Darcy Pennington, you really 
quite alarm me," cried his aunt. '* Why so ?" 
— " Because I fear that you are a little delirious /" 
—•On which Darcy nearly laughed himself into 
convulsions. " Let me feel your pulse, Darcy," 
said his uncle very gravely, — " too quick, — I shall 
send for advice, if you are not better to-morrow ; 
you look so flushed, and your eyes are so bright !" 
— " My dear uncle," replied Darcy, " I shall be 
quite well if you will but hear my manuscript be- 
fore you go to bed." They now all looked at 
each other with increased alarm; and Julia, in 
order to please him, (for she really loved him) 
said, " Well, Darcy, if you insist upon it ;" — but 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 45 

interrupting her, he suddenly started up, and ex- 
claimed, " No; on second thoughts, 1 will not read 
it till Captain Eustace and Sir Hugh and his fami- 
ly can be present ; and they will be here the day 
after to-morrow." — " What 1 read your nonsense 
to them !" cried his uncle, " Poor fellow ! poor 
fellow J" But Darcy was gone ! he had caught 
Julia's hand to his lips, and quitted the room, 
leaving his relations to wonder, to fear, and to 
pity. But as Darcy was quite composed the 
next day, they all agreed that he must have drunk 
more wine than he or they had been aware of the 
preceding evening. But though Darcy was will- 
ing to wait the ensuing evening, before he discov- 
ered his secret to the rest of the family, he could 
not be easy till he had disclosed it to Julia : for 
he was mortified to find that the pious, judicious 
Julia Vane had, for one moment, believed that a 
mere man of the world, like Captain Eustace, 
could have written such verses as he had anony- 
mously addressed to her ; verses breathing the 
very quintessence of pure love ; and full of anx- 
ious interest not only for her temporal, but her 
eternal welfare. " No, no," said he ; " she shall 
not remain in such a degrading error one moment 
longer :" and having requested a private interview 
with her, he disclosed the truth. — " What ! are 
you— can you be — did you write all!" she ex- 
claimed in broken accents ; while Darcy gently 
reproached her for having believed that a mere 
worldly admirer could so have written ; however, 
she justified herself by declaring how impossible 
it was to suspect that a man of honour, as Eustace 
seemed, could be so base as to assume a merit 
which was not his own. Here she paused, turn- 
ing away from Darcy's penetrating look, covered 
with conscious blushes, ashamed that he should 



46 ILLUSTRATION'S OF LYING. 

see how pleased she was. But she readily ac- 
knowledged her sorrow at having been betrayed, 
by the unworthy artifice of Eustace, into encour- 
aging his attentions, and was eager to concert with 
Darcy the best plan for revealing the surprising 
secret. 

The evening, so eagerly anticipated by Darcy 
and Julia, now arrived ; and great was the conster- 
nation of all the rest of the family, when Darcy 
took a manuscript out of his pocket, and began to 
open it. " The fellow is certainly possessed," 
thought his uncle. " Mr. Darcy Pennington," 
whispered his aunt, " I shall faint if you persist in 
exposing yourself!" — "Darcy, 1 will shut you up 
if you proceed," whispered his uncle ; " for you 
must positively be mad." — u Let him go on, dear 
uncle," said Julia ; "I am sure you will be de- 
lighted, or ought to be so :" and, spite of his un- 
cle's threats and whispers, he addressed Captain 
Eustace thus : — 

" Allow me, sir, to thank you again for the 
more than justice which you did my humble per- 
formance the other evening. Till I heard you 
read it, I was unconscious that it had so much 
merit ; and I again thank you for the highest gra- 
tification which, as an author, I ever received." 
New terror seized every one of his family who 
heard him, except Julia ; while wonder filled Sir 
Hugh and the rest of his party — Eustace excepted : 
he knew that he was not the author of the work ; 
therefore he could not dispute the fact that the 
real author now stood before him ; and blushes of 
detected falsehood^ covered his cheek ; but, ere 
he could falter out a reply, Darcy's uncle and 
sons seized him b} T the arm, and insisted on speak- 
ing with him in another room. Darcj^, laughing 
violently, endeavoured to shake them off, but in 



UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES. 41 

vain. " Let him alone," said Julia, smiling, and 
coming forward. " Dairy's 4 eye may be in a 
fine frenzy rolling,' as you have all of you owned 
him to be a poet ; but other frenzy than that of a 
poet he has not, 1 assure you — so pray set him at 
liberty ; / will be answerable for his sanity." — 
" What does all this mean ?" said his uncle, as he 
and his sons unwillingly obeyed. " It means, : ' 
said Darcy, " that 1 hope not to quit this room till 
I have had the delight of hearing these yet un- 
published poems of mine read by Captain Eus- 
tace. Look, sir," continued he, M here is a signa- 
ture well known, no doubt, to you : that of Al- 
fred" — " Are you indeed Alfred, the celebrated 
Alfred ?" faltered out Eustace. " I believe so," 
he replied with a smile ; though on some occasions, 
you know, it is difficult to prove one's personal 
identity"--" True," answered Eustace, turning over 
the manuscript, to hide his confusion. " And F, 
Captain Eustace," said Julia, have had the great 
satisfaction of discovering that my unknown po- 
etical correspondent is my long-cherished friend 
and cousin, Darcy Pennington. Think how satis- 
factory this discovery has been to me /" — s tt Cer- 
tainly, Madam," he replied, turning pale with 
emotion ; for he not only saw his Passive Lies of 
Vanity detected, though Darcy had too much 
Christian forbearance even to insinuate that he 
intended to appropriate to himself the fame of an- 
other, but he also saw, in spite of the kindness with 
which she addressed him, that he had lost Julia, 
and that Darcy had probably gained her. 
" What is all this ?" cried Sir Hugh at last, who 
with the uncle and aunt had listened in silent won- 
der. " Why, Eustace, i thought you owned that?" 
— u That I deny ; 1 owned nothing ;" he eagerly 
replied. " You insisted on it, nay, every body 



48 



ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



insisted, that I was the author of the beautiful 
work which I read, and of other things ; and if 
Mr. Pennington asserts that he is the author, I 
give him joy of his genius and his fame." — " What 
do I hear !" cried the aunt ; " Mr. Darcy Pen- 
nington a genius, and famous, and I not suspect 
it !" — 4i Impossible !" cried his uncle, pettishly ; 
K that dull fellow turnout a wit! It cannot be. 
What ? are you Alfred, boy ? 1 cannot credit it ; 
for if so, 1 have been dull indeed ;" while his sons 
seemed to feel as much mortification as surprise. 
" My dear uncle," said Darcy, " I am now a 
professed author. I wrote the work which you 
heard last night. Here it is in the manuscript, as 
returned by the printer; and here is the last proof 
of the second edition, which I received at the post- 
office just now, directed to A. B. ; which is, I 
think, proof positive that I may be Alfred also, 
who, by your certainly impartial praises, is for 
this evening, at least, in his own eyes elevated in- 
to Alfred the Great." 



CHAPTER III. 

ON THE LIES OF FLATTERY. 

The Lies of Flattery are next on my list. 

These lies are, generally speaking, not only un- 
principled, but offensive ; and though they are 
usually told to conciliate good will, the flatterer 
often fails in his attempt ; for his intended dupe 
frequently sees through his art, and he excites in- 
dignation where he meant to obtain regard. 



£N /SHE LIES OP FLATTERY. 49 

Those who know ought of human nature as it re- 
ally is, and do not throw the radiance of their 
own christian benevolence over it, must be well 
aware that few persons hear with complacency 
the praises of others, even where there is no com- 
petition between the parties praised and them- 
selves. Therefore, the objects of excessive flat- 
tery are painfully conscious that the praises be- 
stowed on them, in the hearing of their acquain- 
tances, will not only provoke those auditors to un- 
dervalue their pretensions, but to accuse them of 
believing in and enjoying the gross flattery offer- 
ed to them. There are no persons, in my opinon, 
with whom it is so difficult to keep up " the rela- 
tions of peace and amity," as flatterers by system 
and habit. Those persons, I mean, who deal out 
their flatteries on the same principle as boys throw 
a handful of burs. However unskilfully the burs 
are thrown, the chances are that some will stick ; 
and flatterers expect that some of their compli- 
ments will dwell with, and impose on, their inten- 
ded dupe. Perhaps their calculation is not, gen- 
erally considered, an erroneous one ; but if there 
be any of their fellow-creatures uith whom the 
sensitive and the discerning may be permitted to 
loathe association, it is with those who presume to 
address them in the language of compliment, too 
violent and unappropriate to deceive even for a 
moment ; while they discover on their lips the 
flickering sneer of contempt contending with its 
treacherous smile, and mark their wily eye look- 
ing round in search of some responsive one, to 
which it can communicate their sense of the utter- 
ed falsehood, and their mean exultation over their 
imagined dupe. The lies of benevolence, even 
when they can be resolved into lies of flattery, 
may be denominated amiable lies ; but the lie of 
5 



50 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

flattery is usually uttered by the bad-hearted and 
censorious ; therefore to the term lie of flattery 
might be added an alias ; — alias, the lie of malev- 
olence. 

Coarse and indiscriminating flatterers lay it 
down as a rule, that they are to flatter all persons 
on the qualities which they have not. Hence, 
they flatter the plain, on their beauty ; the weak, 
on their intellect ; the dull, on their wit; believ- 
ing, in the sarcastic narrowness of their concep- 
tions, that no one possesses any self-knowledge ; 
but that every one implicitly believes the truth of 
the eulogy bestowed. This erroneous view, taken 
by the flatterer of the penetration of the flattered, is 
common only in those who have more cunning 
than intellect ; more shrewdness than penetration ; 
and whose knowledge of the weakness of our na- 
ture has been gathered, not from deep study of 
the human heart, but from the depravity of their 
own, or from the pages of ancient and modern 
satirists ; — those who have a mean, malignant 
pleasure, in believing in the absence of all moral 
truth amongst their usual associates ; and are glad 
to be able to comfort themselves for their own 
conscious dereliction from a high moral standard, 
by the conviction that they are, at least, as good as 
their neighbours. Yes ; my experience tells me 
that the above-mentioned rule of flattery is acted 
upon only by the half-enlightened, who take for 
superiority of intellect that base low cunning, 

which, in fools, supplies, 

And amply too, the place of being- wise. 

But the deep observer of human nature knows 
thai where there is re^l intellect, there are dis- 
cernu ent and self-knowledge also ; and that the 
really intelligent are aware to how much praise 



THE TURBAN. 51 

and admiration they are entitled, be it encomium 
on their personal, or mental, qualifications. 

I beg to give one illustration of the Lie of Flat- 
tery, in the following- tale, of which the offending 
heroine is a female ; though, as men are the liceris- 
ed flatterers of women, I needed not to have fear- 
ed the imputation of want of candour, had I taken 
my example from one of the wiser sex. 



THE TURBAN 5 

OR 

THE LIE OF FLATTERY. 

Some persons are such determined flatterers both 
by nature and habit, that they flatter unconscious- 
ly, and almost involuntarily. Such a flatterer was 
Jemima Aldred ; but, as the narrowness of her 
fortune made her unable to purchase the luxuries 
of life in which she most delighted, she was also a 
conscious and voluntary flatterer whenever she was 
with those who had it in their power to indulge 
her favourite inclinations. 

There was one distinguished woman in the cir- 
cle of her acquaintance, whose favour she was 
particularly desirous of gaining, and who was 
therefore the constant object of her flatteries. 
This lady, who was rendered, by her situation, 
her talents, and her virtues, an object of earthly 
worship to many of her associates, had a good- 
natured indolence about her, which made her re- 
ceive the incense offered, as if she believed in its 
sincerity. But the flattery of young Jemima was 



til ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

so gross, and so indiscriminate, that it sometimes 
converted the usual gentleness of Lady Delaval's 
nature into gall ; and she felt indignant at being 
supposed capable of relishing adulation so exces- 
sive, and devotion so servile. But, as she was full 
of christian benevolence, and, consequently, her 
first desire was to do good, she allowed pity for 
the poor girl's ignorance to conquer resentment, 
and lad a plan, in order to correct and amend 
her, if possible, by salutary mortification. 

Accordingly, she invited Jemima, and some oth- 
er young ladies, to spend a whole day with her at 
her house in the country. But, as the truly bene- 
volent are always reluctant to afflict any one, 
even though it be to improve, Lady Delaval would 
have shrunk from the task which she had imposed 
on herself, had not Jemima excited her into per- 
severance, by falling repeatedly and grossly into 
her besetting sin during the course of the day. 
For instance : Lady Delaval, who usually left 
the choice of her ribands to her milliner, as she 
was not studious of her personal appearance, wore 
colours at breakfast that morning which she 
thought ill-suited both to her years and complex- 
ion ; and having asked her guests how they liked 
her scarf and ribands, they pronounced them to 
be beautiful. " But, surely, they do not become 
my olive, ill-looking skin !"— " They are certainly 
not becoming," was the ingenuous reply of all but 
Jemima Aldred, who persisted in asserting that 
the colour was as becoming as it was brilliant ; 
adding, " I do not know what dear Lady Delaval 
means by undervaluing her own clear complex- 
ion," « The less that is said about that the bet- 
ter, 1 believe," she dryly replied, not trying to 
eonceal the sarcastic smile which played upon her 
lip, and feeling strengthened, by this new instance 



THE TURBAN. 5*3 

of Jemima's duplicity, to go on with her design ; 
but Jemima thought she had endeared herself to 
her by flattering her personal vanity ; and, while 
her companions frowned reproach for her insincer- 
ity, she wished for an opportunity of reproving 
their rudeness. After tea, Lady Delaval desired 
her maid to bring her down the foundation for a 
turban, which she was going to pin up, and some 
other finery prepared for the same purpose ; and 
in a short time the most splendid materials for 
millinery shone upon the table. When she began 
her task, her other guests, Jemima excepted, 
worked also, but she was sufficiently employed, 
she said, in watching the creative and tasteful fin- 
gers of her friend. At first, Lady Delaval made 
the turban of silver tissue ; and Jemima was in 
ecstacies ; but the next moment she declared that 
covering to be too simple ; and Jemima thought 
so too ; — while she was in equal ecstacies at the 
effect of a gaudy many-coloured gauze which re- 
placed its modest costliness. But still her young 
companions openly preferred the silver covering, 
declaring that the gay one could only be tolerated 
if nothing else of showy ornament were superadd- 
ed. They gave, however, their opinion in vain. 
Coloured stones, a gold band, and a green spun- 
glass feather, were all in their turn heaped upon 
this showy head-dress, while Jemima exulted over 
every fresh addition, and admired it as a new 
proof of Lady Delaval's taste. "Now, then, it 
is completed," cried Lady Delaval ; " but no ; 
suppose I add a scarlet feather to the green one ; 
Oh ! that would be superb ;" and having given 
this desirable finish to her performance, Jemima 
declared it to be perfect ; but the rest of the com- 
pany were too honest to commend it. Lady De- 
laval then put it on her head ; and it was as un- 
5* 



54 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

becoming as it was ugly: but Jemima exclaimed 
that her dear friend had never worn any thing be- 
fore in which she looked so well, adding, " But 
then she looks well in every thing. However, that 
lovely turban would become any one." — " Try 
how it would fit you !" said Lady Delaval, put- 
ting it on her head. Jemima looked in a glass, 
and saw that to her short, small person, little face 
and little turned-up nose, such an enormous mass 
of finery was the destruction of all comeliness ; 
but, while the by-standers laughed immoderately 
at her appearance, Jemima was loud in her admi- 
ration, and volunteered a wish to wear it at some 
public place — " for 1 think, I do look so well in 
it !" cried Jemima. " If so," said her hostess, 
" y° u i y oun g ladies, on this occasion, have neith- 
er taste nor eyes ;" while Jemima danced about 
the room, exulting in her heavy head-dress, in the 
triumph of her falsehood, and in the supposed su- 
perior ascendancy it had gained her over her hos- 
tess above that of her more sincere companions. 
Nor, when Lady Delaval expressed her fear that 
the weight might be painful, would she allow it to 
be removed ; but she declared that she liked her 
burden. At parting, Lady Delaval, in a tone of 
of great significance, told her that she should hear 
from her the next day* The next morning Jemi- 
ma often dwelt on these marked words, impatient 
for an explanation of them ; and between twelve 
and one o'clock a servant of Lady Delaval's 
brought a letter and a bandbox. 

The letter was first opened ; and was as follows : 

a Dear Jemima, 
i; As 1 know that you have long wished to visit 
my niece Lady Ormsby, and also to attend the as- 
tronomical lecture on the grand transparent orre- 



THE TORBAN. 55 

ry, which is to be given at the public rooms this 
evening, for the benefit of the Infirmary ; though 
your praise-worthy prudence prevented you from 
subscribing to it, I i>ave great pleasure in enclosing 
you a ticket for the lecture, and in informing you 
that i will call and take you to dinner at Lady 
Ormsby's at four o'clock, whence you and I, and 
the rest of the party, (which will be a splendid 

one) shall adjourn to the lecture" 

" How kind ! how very kind !" exclaimed Jemi- 
ma ; but, in her heart, imputing these favours to 
her recent flatteries ; and reading no farther, she 
ran to her mother's apartment to declare the joy«- 
ful news." " Oh, mamma !" exclaimed she, 
" how fortunate it was that 1 made up my dyed 
gauze when I did ! and I can wear natural flow- 
ers in my hair ; and they are so becoming, as 
well as cheap." She then returned to her own 
room, to finish the letter and explore the contents 
of the box. But what was her consternation on 
reading the following words : . . . . " But I 
shall take you to the dinner, and I give you the 
ticket for the lecture, only on this express condi- 
tion, — that you wear the accompanying turban, 
which was decorated according to your taste and 
judgment, and in which you were conscious of 
looking so well ? — Every additional ornament was 
bestowed to please you ; and as I know that your 
wish will be not to deprive me of a head-dress in 
which your partial eyes thought that I looked so 
charmingly, I positively assure you that no con- 
sideration shall ever induce me to wear it ; and 
that I expect you to meet my summons, arrayed 
in your youthful loveliness and my turban." 

Jemima sat in a sort of stupor after perusing 
this epistle : and when she started from it, it was 
*© carry the letter and the turban to her mother. 



56 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

" Read that ! and look at that '" she exclaimed, 
pointing to the turban. " Why, to be sure, Jemi- 
ma, Lady Delaval must be making game of you," 
she replied. " What could produce such an ab- 
surd requisition ?" When called upon to answer 
this question, Jemima blushed ; and, for the first 
time, feeling some compunctious visitings of con- 
science, she almost hesitated to own, that the an- 
noying conditions were the consequence of her 
flatteries. Still, to comply with them was impos- 
sible : and to go to the dinner and lecture without 
them, and thereby perhaps affront Lady Delaval, 
was impossible also. — " What ! expect me to hide 
my pretty hair under that preposterous mountain ? 
Never, never !" Vainly, now, did she try to ad- 
mire it ; and she felt its weight insupportable. 
" To be sure," said she to herself, " Captain Les- 
lie and George Vaux will dine at Lady Ormsby's 
and go to the lecture ; but then they will not bear 
to look at me in this frightful head-dress, and will 
so quiz me ; and I am sure they will think me too 
great a quiz to sit by ! No, no ; much as I wish 
to go, and I do so very, very much wish it, I can- 
not go on these cruel conditions." — " But what ex- 
cuse can you make to Lady Delaval ?" — " I must 
tell her that I have a bad toothach, and cannot 
go ; and I will write her a n©te to say so ! and 
at the same time return the ugly turban." She 
did so ; — but when she saw Lady Delaval pass to 
the fine dinner, and heard the carriages at night 
going to the crowded lecture, she shed tears of 
bitterness and regret, and lamented that she had 
not dared to go without the conditional and de- 
testable turban. The next day she saw Lady 
Delaval's carriage drive up to the door, and also 
saw the servant take a band-box out. " Oh dear 
mamma," cried Jemima," I protest that ridiculous 



THE TURBAN. 57 

old womaa has brought her ugly turban back 
again !" and it was with a forced smile of welcome 
that she greeted Lady Delaval. — That lady en- 
tered the room with a graver and more dignified 
mein than usual ; for she came to reprove, 
and, she hQped, amend an offender against 
those principles of truth which she honored, 
and to which she uniformly acted up. Just 
before Lady Delaval appeared, Jemima re- 
collected that she was to have the toothach; there- 
fore she tied up her face, adding a practical lie 
to the many already told ; — for one lie is sure to 
make many. "I was sorry to find that you were 
not able to accompany me to the dinner and lec- 
ture," said she ; " and were kept at home by the 
toothach. Was that your only reason for staying 
at home ?" " Certainly, madam ; can you doubt 
it V — M Yes ; for I have strong suspicion that the 
toothach is a pretence, not a reality." — "This 
from you, Lady Delaval ! my once kind friend." 
*' Jemima, I am come to prove myself a far kind- 
er friend than ever I did before. I am glad to 
find you alone ; because I should not like to re- 
prove a child before her mother." Lady Delaval 
then reproached her astonished auditor with the 
mean habit of flattery, in which she was so apt to 
indulge ; assuring her that she had never been for 
one moment her dupe, and had insisted on her 
wearing the turban, in order to punish her despi- 
cable duplicity. " Had you not acted thus," con- 
tinued Lady Delaval, " I meant to have taken you 
to the dinner and lecture, without conditions ; but 
I wished to inflict on you a salutary punishment, 
in hopes of convincing you that there are no qual- 
ities so safe, or so pleasing as truth and ingenuous*? 
ness. — I saw you cast an alarmed look at the hat- 
box," she added, in a gayer tone ; " but fear not ; 
the turban is no more ! and, in its stead, I have 



£8 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYlNtt. 

taken the liberty of bringing you a Leghorn bon- 
net ; and should you, while you wear it, feel any 
desire to flatter, in your usual degrading manner, 
may it remind you of this conversation, and its 
cause, — and make your present mortification the 
means of your future good." At this moment Je- 
mima's mother entered the room, exclaiming : 
u Oh ! Lady Delaval ! I am glad you are come ! 
my poor child's toothach is so bad ! and how un- 
fortunate that" .... Lady Delaval cast on the 
mistaken mother a look of severe reproof, and on 
the daughter one of pity and unavailing regret 5 
for she felt that, for the child who is hourly expos- 
ed to the contagion of an unprincipled parent's 
example, there can be little chance of amend- 
ment ; and she hastened to the carriage, convinc- 
ed that for the poor Jemima Aldred her labours 
of christian duty had been exerted in vain. She 
would have soon found how just her conviction 
was, had she heard the dialogue between the mo- 
ther and daughter, as soon as she drove off. Je- 
mima dried up her hypocritical tears, and ex- 
claimed, " Aeross,methodistical creature ! I am 
glad she is gone !" — " What do you mean, child ? 
and what is all this about ?" Jemima having told 
her, she exclaimed, " Why the woman is mad! 
What! object to a little harmless flattery ! and 
call that lying, indeed ! Nonsense ! it is all a 
pretence. She hate flattery ! no, indeed ; if you 
were to tell her the truth, she would hate you like 
poison." — " Very likely ; but see, mamma, what 
she has given me. What a beautiful bonnet ! But 
she owed it to me, for the trick she played me, 
and for her preaching." — " Well, child," answer- 
ed her mother, " let her preach to you every day 
and welcome, if she comes, as to-day, full- 
handed." 



LIES OF FEAR. #9 

Such was the effect of Lady DelavaPs kind ef- 
forts, on a mother so teaching, and a daughter so 
taught ; for indelible indeed are those habits of 
falsehood and disingenuousness which children 
acquire, whose parents do not make a strict ad- 
herence to truth the basis of their children's educa- 
tion ; and punish all deviation from it with saluta- 
ry rigour. But, whatever be the excellences or the 
errors of parents or preceptors, there is one ne- 
cessary thing for them to remember, or their ex- 
cellences will be useless, and their faults irreme- 
diable ; namely, that they are not to form their 
children for the present world alone ; — they are 
to educate them not merely as the children of time 
but as the heirs of eternity. 



CHAPTER IV. 



LIES OF FEAR. 



I once believed that the lie of fear was confined 
to the low and uneducated of both sexes, and to 
children ; but further reflection and observation 
have convinced me that this is by no means the 
case ; but that, as this lie springs from the want of 
moral courage, and as this defect is by no means 
confined to any class or age, the result of it, that 
fear of man which prompts to the lie of fear, must 
be universal also ; though the nature of the dread 
may be various, and of different degrees of 
strength. For instance ; a child or a servant (of 
course I speak of ill-educated children) breaks a 
toy or a glass, and denies having done so. Ac- 



«?6 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

quaintances forget to execute commissions intrust- 
ed to them ; and either say that they are execut- 
ed, when they are not, or make some false ex- 
cuses for an omission which was the result of for- 
getfulness only. No persons are guilty of so 
many of this sort of lies, in the year, as negligent 
correspondents ; since excuses for not writing 
sooner are usually lies of fear — fear of having for- 
feited favour by too long a silence. 

As the lie of fear always proceeds, as 1 have 
before observed, from a want of moral courage, it 
is often the result of want of resolution to say 
" no," when "yes" is more agreeable to the feel- 
ings of the questioner. " Is not my new gown pret- 
ty ?" " Is not my new hat becoming ?" " Is not 
my coat of a good colour ?" There are few per- 
sons who have courage to say u no," even to these 
trivial questions ; though the negative would be 
truth, and the affirmative, falsehood. And still less 
are they able to be honest in their replies to ques- 
tions of a more delicate nature. " Is not my last 
work the best?" " Is not my wife beautiful?" 
u Is not my daughter agreeable ?" " Is not my 
son a fine youth ?" — those ensnaring questions, 
which contented and confiding egotism is only too 
apt to ask. 

Fear of wounding the feelings of the interroga- 
tor, prompts an affirmative answer. But, perhaps, 
a lie on these occasions is one of the least displeas- 
ing, because it may possibly proceed from a kind 
aversion to give pain, and occasion disappoint- 
ment ; and has a degree of relationship, a distant 
family resemblance, to the lie of benevolence ; 
though, when accurately analysed, even this good- 
natured falsehood may be resolved into selfish 
d v ead of losing favour by speaking the troth. Of 
these pseudo-Iks of benevolence I shall treat in 



THE BANK NOTE. 61 

their turn ; but I shall now proceed to relate a 
story, to illustrate the lie of fear, and its impor- 
tant results, under apparently unimportant cir- 
cumstances. 



THE BANK NOTE. 

" Are you returning immediately to Worcester ?" 
said Lady Leslie, a widow residing near that city, 
to a young officer who was paying her a morning 
visit. — Ci I am; can I do any thing for you there ?" 
— " Yes ; you can do me a great kindness. My 
confidential servant, Baynes, is gone out for the 
day and night ; and I do not like to trust my new 
footman, of whom I know nothing, to put this let- 
ter in the post-office, as it contains a fifty-pound 
note." — "Indeed ! that is a large sum to trust to 
the post." — " Yes ; but I am told it is the safest 
conveyance. It is, however, quite necessary that 
a person whom 1 can trust should put the letter in 
the box." — " Certainly," replied Captain Free- 
land. Then, with an air that showed he consider- 
ed himself as a person to be trusted, he deposited 
the letter in safety in his pocket-book, and took 
leave : promising he would return to dinner the 
next day which was Saturday. 

On his road, Freeland met some of his brother- 
officers, who were going so pass the day and night 
at Great Malvern ; and as they earnestly pressed 
him to accompany them, he wholly forgot the let- 
ter entrusted to his care ; and, having despatched 
6 



62 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

his servant to Worcester, for his sac-de-nuit* and 
other things, he turned back with his companions, 
and passed the rest of the day in that sauntering 
but amusing idleness, that dolce far nientej which 
may be reckoned comparatively virtuous, if it leads 
to the forgetfulness of little duties only, and is not 
attended by the positive infringement of greater 
ones. But, in not putting this important letter in- 
to the post, as he had engaged to do, Freeland 
violated a real duty ; and he might have put it 
in at Malvern, had not the rencounter with his 
brother-officers banished the commission given 
him entirely from his thoughts. Nor did he re- 
member it till, as they rode through the village 
the next morning, on their way to Worcester, they 
met Lady Leslie walking in the road. 

At sight of her, Freeland recollected with shame 
and confusion that he had not fulfilled the charge 
committed to him ; and fain would he have pass- 
ed her unobserved ; for, as she was a woman of 
high fashion, great talents, and some severity, he 
was afraid that his negligence, if avowed, would 
not only cause him to forfeit her favour, but ex- 
pose him to her powerful sarcasm. 

To avoid being recognised was, however, im- 
possible ; and as soon as Lady Leslie saw him, 
she exclaimed, " Oh ! Captain Freeland, I am so 
glad to see you ? I have been quite uneasy con- 
cerning my letter since I gave it to your care ; for 
it was of such consequence! Did you put it into 
the post yesterday ?" u Certainly," replied Free- 
land, hastily, and in the hurry of the moment, 
" Certainly. How could you, dear Madam, 
doubt, my obedience to your commands?" — 
" Thank you ! thank you !" cried she, " How 

* Night bag. t Sweet doing nothing. 



THE BANK NOTE. 63 

you have relieved my mind !" He had so ; but 
be had painfully burthened his own. To be sure 
it was only a white lie, — the lie of fear. Still 
he was not used to utter falsehood ; and he felt 
the meanness and degradation of this. He had 
yet to learn that it. was mischievous also ; and that 
none can presume to say where the consequences 
of the most apparently trivial lie will end. As 
soon as,Freeland parted with Lady Leslie, he 
bade his friends farewell, and, putting spur to his 
horse, scarcely slackened his pace till he had 
reached a general post-office, and deposited the 
letter in safety. M Now, then," thought he, " I 
hope I shall be able to return and dine with Lady 
Leslie, without shrinking from her penetrating 
eye." 

He found her when he arrived, very pensive 
and absent; so much so, that she felt it necessary 
to apologize to her guests, informing them that 
Mary Benson, an old servant of hers, who was 
very dear to her, was seriously ill, and painfully 
circumstanced 5 and that she feared she had not 
done her duty by her. " To tell you the truth, 
Captain Freeland," said she, speaking to him in a 
low voice, " I blame myself for not having sent 
for my confidential servant, who was not very far 
off, and despatched him with the money, instead 
of trusting it to the post." — " It would have been 
better to have done so, certainly /" replied Free- 
land, deeply blushing. " Yes ; for the poor wo- 
man, to whom I sent it, is not only herself on the 
point of being confined, but she has a sick hus- 
band, unable to be moved ; and as (but owing to 
no fault of his) he is on the point of bankruptcy, 
his cruel landlord has declared that, if they do 
not pay their rent by to-morrow, he will turn 
them out into the street, and seize the very bed 



64 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

they lie on ! However, as you put the letter into 
the post yesterday, they must get the fifty-pound 
note to-day, else they could not ; for there is no 
delivery of letters in London on a Sunday, you 
know." " True, \cvy true," replied Freeland, in 
atone which he vainly tried to render steady. 
41 Therefore," continued Lady Leslie, u if you 
had told me, when we met, that the letter was not 
gone, 1 should have recalled Baynes, and sent 
him off by the mail to London ; and then he 
would have reached Somerstown, where the Ben- 
sons live, in good time ; — but now, though 1 own 
it would be a comfort to me to send him, for fear 
of accident, I could not get him back again soon 
enough ; — therefore, 1 must let things take their 
chance ; and, as letters seldom miscarry, the only 
danger is, that the note may be taken out." She 
mi^ht have talked an hour without answer or in- 
terruption ;— for Freeland was too much shocked, 
too much conscience-stricken, to reply; as he 
found that he had not only told a falseheod, but 
that, if he had had moral courage enough to tell the 
truth, the mischievous negligence, of which he had 
been guilty, could have been repaired ; but now, 
as Lady Leslie said, " it was too late !" 

But, while Lady Leslie became talkative, and 
able to perform her duties to her friends, after 
she had thus unburthened her mind to Freeland. 
he grew every minute more absent, and more 
taciturn ; and, though he could not eat with ap- 
petite, he threw down, rather than drank, repeated 
glasses of hock and champagne, to enable him to 
rally his spirits ; but in vain. A naturally ingen- 
uous and generous nature cannot shake off the 
first compunctious visitings of conscience for hav- 
ing committed an unworthy action, and having 
also been the means of injury to another. All on 



THE BANK NOTE. 65 

a sudden, however, his countenance brightened ; 
and as soon as the ladies left the table, he started 
up, left his compliments and excuses with Lady 
Leslie's nephew, who presided at dinner ; said he 
had a pressing call to Worcester ; and, when 
there, as the London mail was gone, he threw 
himself into a postchaise, and set off for Somers- 
town, which Lady Leslie had named as the res- 
idence of Mary Benson. " At least," said Free- 
land to himself with a lightened heart, " I shall 
now have the satisfaction of doing all 1 can to re- 
pair my fault." But, owing to the delay occasion- 
ed by want of horses, and by finding the ostlers 
at the inns in bed, he did not reach London and 
the place of his destination till the wretched fami- 
ly had been dislodged ; while the unhappy wife 
was weeping, not only over the disgrace of being 
so removed, and for her own and her husband's 
increased illness in consequence of it, but from the 
agonizing suspicion that the mistress and friend, 
whom she had so long loved, and relied upon, had 
disregarded the tale jjf her sorrows, and had re- 
fused to relieve her necessities ! Freeland soon 
found a conductor to the mean lodging in which 
the Bensons had obtained shelter ; for they were 
well known ; and their hard fate was generally 
pitied : — but it was some time before he could 
speak, as he stood by their bedside — he was 
choked with painful emotion at first ; with pleas- 
ing emotions afterwards :- — for his conscience smote 
him for the pain he had occasioned, and applaud- 
ed him for the pleasure which he came to bestow. 
— " I come," said he, at length, (while the suffer- 
ers waited in almost angry wonder, to hear his 
reason for thus intruding on them) " I come to tell 
you, from your kind friend, Lady Leslie," — 
" Then she has not forgotten me !" screamed out 
6* 



66 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the poor woman, almost gasping for breath, 
" No, to be sure not : — she could not forget you ; 
she was incapable . . • ." here his voice wholly 
failed him. " Thank heaven !" cried she, tears 
trickling down her pale cheek. " I can bear any 
thing now ; for that was the bitterest part of all t" 
— " My good woman," said Freeland, " it was 
owing to a mistake : — pshaw ! no : it was owing 
to my fault, that you did not receive a £50 note 
by the post yesterday :" — " £50 !" cried the poor 
man, wringing his hands, " why that would have 
more than paid ail we owed ; and I could have 
gone on with my business, and our lives would not 
have been risked, nor I disgraced t" Freeland 
now turned away, unable to say a word more ; 
but recovering himself, he again drew near them ; 
and, throwing his purse to the agitated speaker, 
said " there ! get well ! only get well ! and what- 
ever you want shall be yours ! or I shall never 
lose this horrible choking again while I live !" 

Freeland took a walk after this scene, and with 
hasty, rapid strides; the painful choking being his 
companion very often during the course of it, — for 
he was haunted by the image of those whom he 
had disgraced ; — and he could not help remem- 
bering that, however blameable his negligence 
might be, it was nothing, either in sinfulness or 
mischief, to the lie told to conceal it ; and that, 
but for that lie of fear, the effects of his negli- 
gence might have been repaired in time. 

But he was resolved that he would not leave 
Somerstown till he had seen these poor people set- 
tled in a good lodging. He therefore hired a con- 
veyance for them, and superintended their removal 
that evening to apartments full of every necessary 
comfort. " My good friends," said he, fct I can- 
not recall the mortification and disgrace which 



THE BANK NOTE* 6-7 

you have endured through my fault ; but I trust 
that you will have gained, in the end, by leaving 
a cruel landlord, who had no pity for your un- 
merited poverty. Lady Leslie's note will, I trust, 
reach you to-morrow ; — but if not, I will make up 
the loss ; therefore be easy ! and when 1 go away 
may I have the comfort of knowing that your re- 
moval has done you no harm !" 

He then, but not till then, had courage to write 
to Lady Leslie, and tell her the whole truth ; con- 
cluding his letter thus : 

" If your interesting proteges have not suffered 
in their health, \ shall not regret what has hap- 
pened ; because I trust that it will be a lesson to 
me through life, and teach me never to tell even 
the most apparently trivial white lie again. How 
unimportant this violation of truth appeared to me 
at the moment ! and how sufficiently mot ved ! as 
it was to avoid falling in your estimation ; but it 
was, you see, overruled for evil ; — and agony of 
mind, disgrace, and perhaps risk of life, were the 
consequences of it to innocent individuals ; — not 
to mention my own pangs ; — the pangs of an up- 
braiding conscience. But forgive me, my dear 
Lady Leslie. However, I trust that this evil, so 
deeply repented of, will be blessed to us all; but 
it will be long before I forgive myself." 

Lady Leslie was delighted with this candid let- 
ter, though grieved by its painful details, while 
she viewed with approbation the amends which 
her young friend had made, and his modest dis- 
regard of his own exertions. 

The note arrived in safety ; and Freeland left 
the afflicted couple better in health, and quite 
happy in mind ; — as his bounty and Lady Leslie 
had left them nothing to desire in a pecuniary 
point of view. 



68 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

When Lady Leslie and he met, she praised his 
virtue, while she blamed his fault ; and they forti- 
fied each other in the wise and moral resolution, 
never to violate truth again, even on the slightest 
occasion ; as a lie, when told, however unimpor- 
tant it may at the time appear, is like an arrow 
shot over a house, whose course is unseen, and 
may be unintentionally the cause, to some one, of 
agony or death. 



CHAPTER V. 

LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 

These are lies which are occasioned by a sel- 
fish dread of losing favour, and provoking dis- 
pleasure, by speaking the truth, rather than by 
real benevolence. Persons, calling themselves 
benevolent, withhold disagreeable truths, and utter^ 
agreeable falsehoods, from a wish to give pleas-" 
ure, or to avoid giving pain. If you say that you 
are looking ill, they tell you that you are looking 
well. If you express a fear that you are growing 
corpulent, they say you are only just as fat as you 
ought to be. If you are hoarse in singing, and 
painfully conscious of it, they declare that they 
did not perceive it. And this not from the de- 
sire of flattering you, or from the malignant one of 
wishing to render you ridiculous, by imposing on 
jrour credulity, but from the desire of making you 
pleased with yourself. In short, they lay it down 
as a rule, that you must never scruple to sacrifice 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 69 

the truth, when the alternative is giving the slight- 
est pain or mortification to any one. 

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the 
lies of fear or of benevolence preponderate, in the 
following trifling, but characteristic anecdote. 



A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS. 

Most mistresses of families have a family re- 
ceipt-book ; and are apt to believe that no re- 
ceipts are so good as their own. 

With one of these notable ladies a young house- 
keeper went to pass a few days, both at her town 
and country-house. The hostess was skilled, not 
only in culinary lore, but in economy ; and was 
m the habit of setting on her table, even when 
aot alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had 
led her to pot, pickle, or preserve, for occasional 
use. 

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, 
a dish of potted sprats was set before the lady of 
the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, 
derived from a family receipt of a century old, 
pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of 
them. 

The dish was as good as much salt and little 
spice could make it ; but it had one peculiarity ; 
— it had a strong flavour of garlick, and to garlick 
the poor guest had a great dislike. 

But she was a timid woman ; and good-breed- 
ing, and what she called benevolence, said, " per- 
severe a swallow," though her palate said, u no." 
" Is it not excellent 2" said the hostess. — " Ve- 



70 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ry ;" faltered out the half- suffocated guest ; — and 
this was lie the first. " Did you ever eat any 
thing like it before V — " Never," replied the otner 
more firmly ; for then she knew that she spoke 
the truth, and longing to add, " and I hope I never 
shall eat any thing like it again." — " 1 will give 
you the receipt," said the lady kindly ; " it will 
be of use to you as a young housekeeper ; for it 
is economical, as well as good, and serves to make 
out, when we have a scrap-dinner. My servants 
often dine on it." — " I wonder you can get any 
servants to live with you," thought the guest ; 
t; but I dare say you do not get any one to stay 
long !" — " You do not, however, eat as if you lik- 
ed it." — " Oh yes, indeed, I do, very much," (lie 
the second) she replied ; " hut you forget I have 
already eaten a good dinner ;" (lie the third. 
Alas! what had benevolence, so called, to answer 
for on this occasion !) 

" Well, I am delighted to find that you like my 
sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth 
was removing; adding, "John! do not let those 
sprats be eaten in the kitchen!" an order which 
the guest heard with indescribable alarm. 

The next day they were to set off for the coun- 
trj'-house, or cottage. When they were seated in 
the carriage, a large box was put in, and the guest 
fancied she smelt garlick ; but 

" . . . . where ignorance is bliss, 
" 'Tis folly to be wise." 

She therefore asked no questions ; but tried to 
enjoy the present, regardless of the future. At a 
certain distance they stoppedto bait the horses. 
There the guest expected that they should get out, 
and take some refreshment; but her economical 
companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, ob- 



THE POTTED SPRATS. 71 

served, ;1 1 always sit in the carriage on these oc- 
casions. If one gets out, the people at the inn 
expect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take 
mine with me." So saying, John was summoned 
to drag the carriage out of sight of the inn win- 
dows. He then unpacked the box, took out of it 
knives and forks, plates, &c. and also ajar, which 
impregnating the air with its effluvia, even before 
it was opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that 
its contents were the dreaded sprats ! 

" Alas I" thought she, " Pandora's box was no- 
thing to this ! for in that, Hope remained behind ; 
but, at the bottom of this, is Despair !" In vain 
did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) that 
" she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she 
never ate in the morning." Her hostess would 
take no denial. However, she contrived to get a 
piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread ; and the 
rest she threw out of the window, when her com- 
panion was looking another way — who, on turning 
round, exclaimed, " so you have soon despatched 
the fish ! let me give you another ; do not refuse, 
because you think they are nearly finished ; I as- 
sure you there are several left ; and (delightful in- 
formation !) we shall have a fresh supply to-mor- 
row !" However, this time she was allowed to 
know when she had eaten enough ; and the tra- 
vellers proceeded to their journey's end. 

This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner ; 
— but, there being only a few left, they were kept 
for a bonne bouche, and reserved for supper ! a 
meal, of which, this evening, on account of indis- 
position, the hostess did not partake, and was 
therefore at liberty to attend entirely to the wants 
of her guest, who would fo\n have declined eating 
also, but it was impossible ; she had just declared 
that she was quite well, and had often owned that 



$2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

she enjoyed a piece of supper after an early dinner. 
There was therefore no retreat from the maze in 
which her insincerity had involved her ; and eat 
she must : but, when she again smelt on her plate 
the nauseous composition which being near the 
bottom of the pot, was more disagreeable than 
ever, human patience and human infirmity could 
bear no more ; the scarcely tasted morsel fell 
from her lips, and she rushed precipitately into the 
open air, almost disposed to execrate, in her heart, 
potted sprats, the good breeding of her officious 
hostess, and even Benevolence itself. 



Some may observe, on reading this story, 
" What a foolish creature the guest must have 
been ! and how improbable it is that any one 
should scruple to say, the dish is disagreeable, and 
I hate garlick !" But it is my conviction that the 
guest on this occasion, exhibited only a slightly- 
exaggerated specimen of the usual conduct of 
those who have been taught to conduct themselves 
wholly by the artificial rules of civilized society, 
of which, generally speaking, falsehood is the 
basis. 

Benevolence is certainly one of the first of vir- 
tues ; and its result is an amiable aversion to 
wound the feelings of others, even in trifles ; there- 
fore benevolence and politeness may be consider- 
ed as the same thing ; but Worldly Politeness is 
only a copy of benevolence. Benevolence is gold : 
this politeness a paper currency, contrived as its 
substitute ; as society, being aware that benevo- 
lence is as rare as it is precious, and that ^cw are 
able to distinguish, in any thing, the false from the 
true, resolved, in lieu of benevolence, to receive 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 73 

worldly politeness, with all her train of deceitful 
welcomes, heartless regrets, false approbations, 
and treacherous smiles ; those alluring seemings, 
which shine around her brow, and enable her to 
pass for Benevolence herself. 

But how must the religious and the moral dis- 
like the one, though they venerate the other ! The 
kindness of the worldly Polite only lives its little 
hour in one's presence ; but that of the Benevolent 
retains its life and sweetness in one's absence. 
The worldly polite will often make the objects of 
their greatest flatteries and attentions, when pre- 
sent, the butt of their ridicule as soon as they see 
them no more ; — while the benevolent hold the 
characters and qualities of their associates in a 
sort of holy keeping at all times, and are as indul~ 
gent to the absent as they were attentive to the pre- 
sent. The kindness of the worldly polite is the gay 
and pleasing flower worn in the bosom, as the orna- 
ment of a few hours ; then suffered to fade, and 
thrown by, when it is wanted no longer; — but 
that of the really benevolent is like the fresh- 
springing evergreen, which blooms on through all 
times, and all seasons, unfading in beauty, and un- 
diminishing in sweetness. But, it may be asked, 
whether I do not admit that the principle of never 
wounding the self-love or feelings of any one is a 
benevolent principle ; and whether it be not com- 
mendable to act on it continually. Certainly 5 
if sincerity goes band in hand with benevolence. 
But where is your benevolence, if you praise 
those, to their faces, whom you abuse as soon 
as they have left you ?-—■ where your benevo- 
lence, if you welcome those, with smiling urbani- 
ty, whom you see drive off with a " Well ; I 
am glad they are gone ?" and how common is it 
to hear persons, who think themselves very moral, 
7 



74 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and very kind, begin, as soon as their guests are 
departed, and even when they are scarcely out of 
hearing, to criticise their dress, their manners, and 
their characters; while the poor unconscious visit- 
ers, the dupes of their deceitful courtesy, are go- 
ing home delighted with their visit, and saying 
what a charming evening they have passed, and 
what agreeable and kind-hearted persons the mas- 
ter and mistress of the house, and their family 
are !" — Surely, then, I am not refining too much 
when I assert that the cordial seemings, which 
these deluded guests were received, treated, and 
parted with, were any thing rather than the lies 
of benevolence. I also believe that those who 
scruple not, even from well-intentioned kindness, 
to utter spontaneous falsehoods, are not gifted 
with much judgment and real feeIing T nor are they 
given to think deeply ; for the virtues are nearly 
related, and live in the greatest harmony with 
each other ; — consequently, sincerity and benev- 
olence must always agree, and not, as is often 
supposed, be at variance with each other. The 
truly benevolent feel, and cultivate, such candid 
and kind views of those who associate with them 
that they need not fear to be sincere in their an- 
swers ; and if obliged to speak an unwelcome 
truth, or an unwelcome opinion, their well-prin- 
cipled kindness teaches them some way of mak- 
ing what they utter palatable ; and benevolence 
is gratified without injury to sincerity. 

It is a common assertion, that society is so con- 
stituted, that it is impossible to tell the truth al- 
ways : — but, if those who possess good sense would 
use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way 
of spontaneous truth as they do to justify them- 
selves in the practice of falsehood, the difficulty 
would vanish. Besides, truth is so uncommon an 
ingredient in society, that few are acquainted with 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 15 

it sufficiently to know whether it be admissible or 
not. A pious and highly gifted man said in my 
presence, to a friend whom I esteem and admire, 
and who had asserted that truth cannot always 
be told in society, " Has any one tried it ? — We 
have all of us, in the course of our lives, seen dead 
birds of Paradise so often, that we should scarce- 
ly take the trouble of going to see one now. But 
the Marquise of Hastings has brought over a liv- 
ing bird of Paradise ; and every one is eagerly 
endeavouring to procure a sight of that. I there- 
fore prognosticate that, were spontaneous truth to 
be told in society, where it now is rarely, if ever, 
heard, real, living truth would be as much sought 
after, and admired, as the living bird of Paradise."* 



The following anecdote exhibits that Lie which 
^ome may call the lie of Benevolence, and others, 
the lie of fear ; — that is the dread of losing fa- 
vour, by wounding a person's self-love. I myself 
denominate it the latter. 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 

A young lady, who valued herself on her be- 
nevolence and good-breeding, and had as much re- 
spect for truth as those who live in the world 
usually have, was invited by an authoress, whose 



* I fear that I have given the words weakly and imperfectly j 
but I know I am correct, as to the sentiment and the illustration-, 
The speaker was Edward Irving. 



76 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

favour she coveted, and by whose attention she 
was flattered, to come and hear her read a manu- 
script tragi-comedy. The other auditor was an 
eld lady, who, to considerable personal ugliness, 
united strange grimaces, and convulsive twitch- 
ingsof the face, chiefly the result of physical 
causes. 

The authoress read in so affected and dramatic 
a manner, that the young lady's boosted benevo- 
lence had no power to curb her propensity to 
laughter; which being perceived by the reader, 
she stopped in angry consternation, and desired to 
know whether she laughed at her, or her compo- 
sition. At first she was too much fluttered to 
make any reply ; — but as she dared not own the 
truth, and had no scruple against being guilty of 
deception, she cleverly resolved to excuse herself 
by a practical lie. She therefore trod on her 
friend's foot, elbowed her, and, by winks and signs, 
tried to make her believe that it was the grimaces 
of her opposite neighbour, who was quietly knit- 
ting and twitching as usual, which had had such 
an effect on her risible faculties ; and the deceiv- 
ed authoress, smiling herself when her young 
guest directed her eye to her unconscious vis-a-vis, 
resumed her reading with a lightened brow and 
increased energy. 

This added to the young lady's amusement ; as 
she could now indulge her risibility occasionally 
at the authoress's expense, without exciting her 
suspicions ; especially as the manuscript was 
sometimes intended to excite smiles, if not laugh- 
ter ; and the self-love of the writer led her to sup- 
pose that her hearer's mirth was the result of her 
comic powers. But the treacherous gratification 
of the auditor was soon at an end. The manu- 
script was meant to move tears as well as smiles ; 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 77 

but as the matter became more pathetic, the man- 
ner became more ludicrous ; and the youthful 
hearer could no more force a tear than she could 
restrain a laugh ; till the mortified authoress, irri- 
tated intoforgetfulness of all feeling and propriety, 

exclaimed, ""Indeed, Mrs. , i must desire you 

to move your seat, and sit where Miss does 

not see you ; for you make such queer grimaces 
that you draw her attention and cause her to laugh 
when she should be listening to me." The erring 
but humane girl was overwhelmed with dismay at 
the unexpected exposure ; and when the poor 
infirm old lady replied, in a faltering tone, " Is 
she indeed laughing at me V she could scarcely 
refrain from telling the truth, and assuring her 
that she was incapable of such cruelty. " Yes ;" 
rejoined the- authoress, in a paroxysm of wounded 
self-love, " She owned to me soon after she began, 
that you occasioned her ill-timed mirth ; and when 
I looked at you, I could hardly help smiling my- 
self; but I am sure you could help making such 
faces, if you would." — " Child !" cried the old 
lady, while tears of wounded sensibility trickled 
down her pale cheeks, " and you, my unjust 
friend, I hope and trust that I forgive you both ; 
but, if ever you should be paralytic yourselves, 
may you remember this evening, and learn to re- 
pent of having been provoked to laugh by the 
physical weakness of a palsied old woman !" The 
indignant authoress was now penitent, subdued, 
and ashamed, — and earnestly asked pardon for 
her unkindness ; but the young offender, whose 
acted lie had exposed her to seem guilty of a fault 
which she had not committed, was in an agony 
to which expression was inadequate. But, to ex- 
culpate herself was impossible : and she could 
only give her wounded victim tear for tear. 
7* 



78 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

To attend to a farther perusal of the manuscript 
was impossible. The old lady desired that her 
carriage should come round directly ; the author- 
ess locked up her composition, that had been so 
ill received; and the young lady, who had been 
proud of the acquaintance of each, became an ob- 
ject of suspicion and dislike both to the one and 
the other ; since the former considered tier to be 
of a cruel and unfeeling nature, and the latter 
could not conceal from herself the mortifying 
truth, that her play must be wholly devoid of in- 
terest, as it had utterly failed either to rivet or to 
attract her young auditor's attention* 

But, though this girl lost two valued acquaintan- 
ces by acting a lie (a harmless white lie, as it is 
called,) 1 fear she was not taught or amended by 
the circumstance ; but deplored her want of luck, 
rather than her want of integrity ; and, had her 
deception met with the success which she expect- 
ed, she would probably have boasted of her in- 
genious artifice to her acquaintance ; — nor can I 
help believing that she goes on in the same way 
whenever she is tempted to do so, and values her- 
self on the lies of selfish fear, which she dignifies 
by the name of lies of benevolence. 

It is curious to observe that the kindness which 
prompts to really erroneous conduet cannot con- 
tinue to bear even a remote connexion with real 
benevolence. The mistaken girl, in the anecdote 
related above, begins with what she calls, a vir- 
tuous deception. She could not wound the feel- 
ings of the authoress by owning that she laughed 
at her mode of reading : she therefore accused 
herself of a much worse fault ; that of laughing 
at the personal infirmities of a fellow-creature ; 
and then, finding that her artifice enabled her to 
indulge her sense of the ridiculous with impunity. 



AN AUTHORESS AND HER AUDITORS. 7$ 

she at length laughs treacherously and systemat- 
ically, because she dares k do so, and not involun- 
tarily, as she did at first, at her unsuspecting 
friend. Thus such hollow unprincipled benevo- 
lence as hers soon degenerated into absolute ma- 
levolence, Bur, had this girl been a girl of princi- 
ple and of real benevolence^ she might have healed 
her friend's vanity at the same time that she 
wounded it, by saying, after she had owned that 
her mode of reading made her laugh, that she was 
now convinced of the truth of what she had often 
heard ; namely, that authors rarely do justice to 
their own works, when they read them aloud 
themselves, however well they may read the works 
of others j because they are naturally so nervous 
on the occasion, that they are laughably violent, 
because painfully agitated. 

This reply could not have offended her friend 
greatly if at all ; and it might have led her to 
moderate her outre manner of reading. She 
would in consequence have appeared to more ad- 
vantage ; and the interests of real benevolence, 
namely, the doing good to a fellow-creature, 
would have been served, and she would not, by a 
vain attempt to save a friend's vanity from being 
hurt, have been the means of wounding the feel- 
ings of an afflicted woman ; have incurred the 
charge of inhumanity, which she by no means de- 
served ; and have vainly, as well as grossly, sac- 
rificed the interests of Truth. 



JSO ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

CHAPTER VI. 

LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 

I have now before me a very copious subject : 
and shall begin by that most common lie of con- 
venience ; the order to servants, to say "Not at 
home ;" a custom which even some moralists de- 
fend, because they say that it is not lying ; as it 
deceives no one. But this I deny ;— as 1 know it 
is often meant to deceive. I know that if the per- 
son, angry at being refused admittance, says, at 
the next meeting with the denied person, " I am 
sure you were at home such a day, when I called, 
but did not choose to see me" the answer is, a Oh 
dear, no ;— how can you say so ? J am sure I 
was not at home ; — for I am never denied to you;" 
though the speaker is conscious all the while that 
" not at home" was intended to deceive, as well as 
to deny. But, if it be true that " not at home " is 
not intended to deceive, and is a form used mere- 
ly to exclude visiters with as little trouble as pos- 
sible, I would ask whether it were not just as easy 
to say, " my master, or my mistress, is engaged ; 
and can see no one this morning." Why have re- 
course even to the appearance of falsehood, when 
truth would answer every purpose just as well ? 

But if " not at home " be understood amongst 
equals, merely as a legitimate excuse, it still is 
highly objectionable ; because it must have a most 
pernicious effect on the minds of servants, who 
cannot be supposed parties to this implied com- 
pact amongst their superiors, and must therefore 
understand the order literally ; which is, go, and 
lie for my convenience !" How then, I ask in 



LIES OP CONVENIENCE. 81 

the name of justice and common sense, can J, af- 
ter giving such an order, resent any lie which ser- 
vants may choose to tell me for their own conveni- 
ence, pleasure, or interest ? 

Thoughtless and injudicious (I do not like 
to add,) unprincipled persons, sometimes say to ser- 
vants, when they have denied their mistress, " Oh 
fye ! how can you tell me such a fib without 
blushing ? I am ashamed of you ! You know 
your lady is at home ; — well ; — I am really shock- 
ed at your having so much effrontery as to tell 
such a lie with so grave a jface ! But give my 
compliments to your mistress, and tell her, 1 hope 
that she will see me the next time 1 call ;'' — and 
all this uttered in a laughing manner, as if this 
moral degradation of the poor servant were an 
excellent joke ! But on these occasions, what can 
the effect of such joking be on the conscious liars ? 
It must either lead them to think as lightly of truth 
as their reprovers themselves, (since they seem 
more amused than shocked at the detected viola- 
tion of it,) or they will turn away distressed in 
conscience, degraded in their own eyes, for hav- 
ing obeyed their employer, and feeling a degree 
of virtuous indignation against those persons who 
have, by their immoral command, been the means 
of their painful degradation ; — nay, their master 
and mistress will be for ever lowered in their ser- 
vant's esteem ; they will feel that the teacher of a 
lie is brought down on a level with the utterer of 
it ; and the chances are that, during the rest of 
their service, they will without scruple use against 
their employers the dexterity which they have 
taught them to use against others,* 



* As I feel a great desire to lay before my readers the strong- 
est arguments possiblf , to prove the vicious tendency of evea 
tie most tolerated lie of convenience ; namely, the order t« ser- 



82 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

But amongst the most frequent lies of conveni- 
ence are those which are told relative to engage- 
ments, which they who make them are averse to 
keep. " Headachs, bad colds, unexpected visi- 
ters from the country ," all these, in their turn, are 
used as lies of convenience, and gratify indolence, 
or caprice, at the expense of integrity. 

How often have I pitied the wives and daughters 
of profession d men, for the number of lies which 



vants to say " Not at home ;" and as I wholly distrust my inu 
powers of arguing with effect on this, or any other subject, I 
give the following extracts from Dr. Chalmers's " Discourses 
on the Applicatioi of Christianity to the Commercial and Ordi- 
nary Affairs of Lite j" — discourses which abundantly and elo- 
quently prove the sinfulness of deceit in general, and the fear- 
ful responsibility incuried by all who depart, even in the most 
common occurrences, from that undeviating practice of truth 
which is every where enjoined on Christians in the pages of 
holy writ. But I shall, though reluctantly, confine myself in 
these extracts to what bears immediately on the subject before 
us. I must however state, in justice to myself, that my remarks 
on the same points were not only written, but printed and pub- 
lished, in a periodical work, before I knew that Dr. Chalmers 
had written the book in question. 

" You put a lie into the mouth of a dependant, and that for 
the purpose of protecting your time from such an encroachment 
as you would not feel to be convenient, or agreeable. Look to 
the little account that is made of a brother's and sister's eterni- 
ty. Behold the guilty task that is thus unmercifully laid upon 
one who is shortly to appear before the judgment-seat of Christ. 
Think of the entanglement that is thus made to beset the path 
of a creature who is unperishable. That, at the shrine of Mam- 
mon such a bloody sacrifice should be rendered, by some of his 
unrelenting votaries, is not to be wondered at ; but, that the 
shrine of elegance and fashion should be bathed in blood : — 
that soft and sentimental ladyship should put forth her hand to 
such an enormity ; — that she who can sigh so gently, and shed 
her graceful tear over the sufferings of others, should thus be 
accessary to the second and more awful death of her own do- 
mestics ; — that one, who looks the mildest and loveliest of hu- 
man beings, should exact obedience to a mandate which carries 
wrath, and tribulation, and anguish in its train. Oh! how it 
should confirm every Christian in his defiance of the authority 
of fashion, and lead him to spurn at all its folly and all its 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE. 83 

they are obliged to tell, in the course of the year ! 

44 Dr. is very sorry ; but he was sent for to 

a patient just as he was coming with me to your 
house." — " Papa's compliments, and he is very 
sorry ; but he was forced to attend a commission 
of bankruptcy ; but will certainly come, it he can, - 
by-and-by," when the chances are, that the phy- 
sician is enjoying himself over his book and his 
fire, and the lawyer also, congratulating them- 



worthlessness. And it is quite in vain to say that the servant, ' 
whom you thus employ as the deputy of your falsehood, can 
possibly execute the commission without the conscience being at 
all tainted or defiled by it ; that a simple cottage maid can so 
sophisticate the matter, as, without any violence to her original 
principles, to utter the language of what she assuredly knows to 
be a downright lie ; — that she, humble and untutored soul ! can 
sustain no injury, when thus mad* 5 to tamper with the plain 
English of these realms; — that she can at all satisfy herself 
how, by the prescribed utterance of " not at home," she is not 
pronouncing such words as are substantially untrue, but merely 
using them in another and perfectly understood meaning; — and 
which, according to their modern translation, denote that the 
person, of whom she is thus speaking, is securely lurking in one 
ot the most secure and intimate of its receptacles. 

" You may try to darken this piece of casuistry as you will, 
and work up your minds into the peaceable conviction that it is 
all right, and as it should be. But, be very certain that, where 
the moral sense of your domestic is not already overthrown, 
there is, at least, one bosom within which you have raised a war 
of doubts and difficulties, and where, if the victory be on your 
side, it will be on the side of him who is the great enemy of 
righteousness. 

" There is, at least, one person, along the line of this convey- 
ance of deceit, who condeinneth herself in that which she al- 
loweth ; who in the language of Paul, esteeming the practice to 
be unclean, to her will it be unclean ; who will perform her 
task with the offence of her own conscience, and to whom, 
therefore, it will indeed bp evil ; who cannot render obedience 
in this matter to her earthly superior, but, by an act, in which 
she does not stand clear, and unconscious of guilt before God ; 
and with whom, therefore, the sad consequence of what we can 
call nothing else than a barbarous combination against the prin- 
ciples and prospects of the lower orders, is — that, as she has 
not cleaved fully unto the Lord, and has not kept by the service 



84 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

selves on having escaped that terrible bore, a par- 
ty, at the expense of teaching their wife, or daugh- 
ter, or son, to tell what they call, a white lie ! 
But, I would ask those fathers and those mothers 
who make their children the bearers of similar ex- 
cuses, whether after giving them such commissions, 
they could conscientiously resent any breach of 
veracity, or breach of confidence, or deception, 
committed by their children in matters of more im- 



©f the one Master, and has not forsaken all but His bidding, 
she cannot be the disciple of Christ. 

" And let us just ask a master or a mistress, who can thus 
make free with the moral principle of their servants in one in- 
stance, how they can look for pure or correct principle from 
them in other instances ? What right have they to complain of 
unfaithfulness against themselves, who have deliberately sedu- 
ced another into a habit of unfaithfulness against God ? Are 
they so utterly unskilled in the mysteries of our nature, as not to 
perceive that the servant whom you have taught to lie, has got- 
ten such rudiments of education at your hand, as that, without 
any further help, he can now teach himself to purloin ? — and 
yet nothing more frequent than loud and angry complainings 
against the treachery of servants ; as if, in the general wreck of 
their other principles, a principle of consideration for the good 
and interest of their employer, and who has at the same time 
been their seducer, was to survive in all its power and sensibili- 
ty. It is just such a retribution as was to be looked for. It [s a 
recoil, upon their own heads, of the mischief which they them- 
selves have originated. It is the temporal part of the punish- 
ment which they have to bear for the sin of our text ; but not 
the whole of it : far better for them both that both person and 
property were cast into the sea, than that they should stand the 
reckoning of that day, when called to give an account of the 
souls that they have murdered, and the blood of so mighty a 
destruction is required at their hands." 



These remarks at first made part of a chapter' on the lie of 
convenience, but thinking them not suited to that period of my 
work, I took them out again, and not being able to introduce 
them in any subsequent chapter, because they treat of one par- 
ticular lie, and not of lying in general, I have been obliged to 
content myself with putting them in a note. 



LIES OF CONVENIENCE. - 85 

portance. " Ce n'esl que le premier pas qui coutef 
says the proverb ; and I believe that habitual, 
permitted, and encouraged lying, in little and 
seemingly unimportant things, leads to want of 
truth and principle in great and serious matters ; 
for when the barrier, or restrictive principle, is^ 
once thrown down, no one can say where a stop 
will be put to the inroads and the destruction. 

I forgot, in the first edition of my work, to no- 
tice one falsehood which is only too often uttered 
by young women in a ball-room ; but I shall now 
mention it with due reprehension, though 1 scarce- 
ly know under what head to class it. I think, 
however, that it may be named without impropri- 
ety, one of the Lies of Convenience. 

But, I cannot do better than give an extract on 
this subject, from a letter addressed to me by a 
friend, on reading this book, in which she has had 
the kindness to praise, and the still greater kind- 
ness to admonish me.* She says, as follows : — 
" One falsehood that is very often uttered by the 
lips of youth, 1 trust not without a blush, you 
have passed unnoticed ; and, as I always consid- 
ered it no venial one, I will take the present oppor- 
tunity of pointing out its impropriety. A young 
lady y: when asked by a gentleman to dance, whom 
she does not approve, will, without hesitation, say, 
though unprovided with any other partner, " If I 
dance I am engaged ;" this positive untruth is cal- 
culated to wound the feelings of the person to 
whom it is addressed, for it generally happens 
that such person discovers he has been deceived, 



* Vide a (printed) letter addressed " to Mrs. Opie, with ob- 
servations on her recent publication, " Illustrations of Lying 
in all its Branches." The Authoress is Susan R^eve, wife of 
Dr. Reeve, M. D , and daughter of E, Bonhote of Bungay, au* 
thoress of many interesting publications. 
8 



86 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

as well as rejected. It is very seldom that young 
men, to whom it would really be improper that a 
lady should give her hand for the short time oc- 
cupied in one or two dances, are admitted into our 
public places ; but, in such a case, could not a 
reference be made by her, to any friends who are 
present ; pride and vanity too often prompt the 
refusal, and, because the offered partner has not 
sufficiently sacrificed to the graces, is little versed 
44 in the poetry of motion," or derives no conse- 
quence from the possession of rank, or riches, he 
is treated with what he must feel to be contempt. 
True politeness, which has its seat in the heart, 
would scorn thus to wound another, and the real 
votaries of sincerity would never so violate its 
rules to escape a temporary mortification." 

1 shall only add, that 1 have entire unity of sen- 
timent with the foregoing extract. 

Here I beg leave to insert a short Tale, illus- 
trative of Lies of Convenience* 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 

There are a great many match-makers in the 
world ; beings who dare to take on themselves 
the fearful responsibility of bringing two persons 
together into that solemn union which only death 
or guilt can dissolve ; and thus make themselves 
answerable for the possible misery of two of their 
fellow-creatures. 

One of these busy match-makers, a gentleman 
naaied Byrome, was very desirous that Henry 
Sandford, a relation of his, should become a mar- 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 87 

ried man ; and he called one morning to inform 
him that he had at length met with a young lady 
who would, he flattered himself, suit him in all re- 
spects as a wife. Henry Sand ford was not a 
man of many words ; nor had he a high opinion 
of Byrome's judgment. He therefore only said, 
in reply, that he was willing to accompany his re- 
lation to the lady's house, where, on Byrome's 
invitation, he found that he was expected to drink 
tea. 

The young lady in question, whom I shall call 

Lydia L , lived with her widowed aunt, who 

had brought her and her sisters up, and supplied 
to them the place of parents, lost in their infancy. 
She had bestowed on them an expensive and 
showy education ; had, both by precept and ex- 
ample, given every worldly polish to their man- 
ners ; and had taught them to set off their beauty 
by tasteful and fashionable dress : — that is, she 
had done for them all that she thought was neces- 
sary to be done ; and she, as well as Byrome, 
believed that they possessed every requisite to 
make the marriage state happy. 

But Henry Sandford was not so easy to please. 
He valued personal beauty and external accom- 
plishments far below christian graces and moral 
virtues ; and was resolved never to unite himself 
to a woman whose conduct was not entirely under 
the guidance of a strict religious principle. 

Lydia L was not in the room when Sand- 
ford arrived, but he very soon had cause to doubt 
the moral integrity of her aunt and sisters ; for, 
on Byrome's saying, u I hope you are not to have 
any company but ourselves to-day," the aunt re- 
plied. " Oh, no ; we put off some company that 
we expected, because we thought you would like 
to be alone ;" and one of the sisters added, " Yes; 



88 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

I wrote to the disagreeable D s, informing 

them that my aunt was too unwell, with one of her 
bad headachs, to see company ;" " and I," said 

the other, " called on the G s, and said that we 

wished them to come another day, because the 
beaux, whom they liked best to meet were engag- 
ed." — " Admirable !" cried Byrome, " Let wo- 
men alone for excuses !" — while Sandford looked 
grave, and wondered how any one could think 
admirable what to him appeared so reprehensible. 
" However," thought he, " Lydia had no share 
in this treachery and white lying, but may dislike 
them, as I do." Soon after she made her appear- 
ance, attired for conquest; and so radiant did she 
seem in her youthful loveliness and grace, that 
Sandford earnestly hoped she had better princi- 
ples than her sisters. 

Time fled on rapid wings ; and Byrome and the 
two elder sisters frequently congratulated each 
other that " the disagreeable D s and tire- 
some G s" had not been allowed to come, and 

destroy, as they would have done, the pleasure of 
the afternoon. But Lydia did not join in this 
conversation ; and Sandford was glad of it. The 
hours passed in alternate music and conversation, 
and also in looking over some beautiful drawings 
of Lydia's ; but the evening was to conclude with 
a French game a jeu-de-societ6 which Sandford 
was unacquainted with, and which would give 
Lydia an opportunity of telling a story gracefully. 

The L s lived in a pleasant village near the 

town where Sandford and Byrome resided ; and 
a long avenue of fine trees led to their door ; 
when, just as the aunt was pointing out their beau- 
ty to Sandford, she exclaimed, " Oh dear, girls, 
what shall we do ? there is Mrs. Carthew now en- 
tering the avenue! Not at home, John! not at 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 89 

home !" she eagerly vociferated. " My dear 
aunt, that will not do for her, cried the eldest 
sister ; for she will ask for us all in turn, and in- 
quire where we are, that she may go after us." — 
" True," said the other, " and if we admit her, 
she is so severe and methodistical, that she will 
spoil all our enjoyment." " However, in she 
must come," observed the aunt ; " for, as she is an 
old friend, 1 should not like to affront her." 

Sandford was just going to say, " If she be an 
old friend, admit her, by all means ;" when on 
looking at Lydia, who had been silent all this 
time, and was, he flattered himself, of his way of 
thinking, he saw her put her finger archly to her 
nose, and heard her exclaim, tk 1 have it ! there, 
there ; go all of you into the next room, and close 
the door !" she then bounded gracefully down the 
avenue, while Sandford, with a degree of pain 
which he could have scarcely thought possible, 
heard one of the sisters say to Byrome, " Ah ! 
Lydia is to be trusted ; she tells a white lie with 
such an innocent look, that no one can suspect 
her." " What a valuable accomplishment," 
thought Sandford, " in a woman ! what a recom- 
mendation in a wife !" and he really dreaded the 
fair deceiver's return. 

She came back, " nothing doubting," and, smil- 
ing with great self-complacency, said, <fc It was 
very fortunate that it was I who met her ; for I 
have more presence of mind than you, my dear 

sisters. The good soul had seen the D s ; 

and hearing my aunt was ill, came to inquire con- 
cerning her. She was even coming on to the 
house, as she saw no reason why she should not ; 
and I, for a moment, was at a loss how to keep 
her away, when I luckily recollected her great 
dread of infection, and told her that, as the typhus 



90 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

fever was in the village., I feared it was only too 
possible that my poor aunt had caught. it !" — 
" Capital !" cried the aunt and Byrome ! " Really, 
Lydia, that waseven out-doing yourself," cried her 
eldest sister. " Poor Carthewy ! I should not won- 
der, if she came at all near the house, that she 
went home, and took to her bed from alarm !" 

Even Byrome was shocked at this unfeeling 
speech ; and could not help observing, that it 
would be hard indeed if such was the result, to a 
good old friend, of an affectionate inquiry. 
" True," replied Lydia, " and I hope and trust 
she will not really suffer ; but, though very good,^ 
she is very troublesome ; and could we but keep 
up the hum for a day or two, it would be such a 
comfort to us ! as she comes very often, and now 
cannot endure cards, nor any music but hymn- 
singing." 

" Then I am glad she was not admitted ;" said 
Byrome, who saw with pain, by Sandford's folded 
arms and grave countenance, that a change in his 
feelings towards Lydia had taken place. Nor 
was he deceived : — Sandford was indeed gazing 
intently, but not as before, with almost overpower- 
ing admiration, on the consciously-blushing object 
of it. No ; he was likening her, as he gazed, to 
the beautiful apples that are said to grow on the 
shores of the Dead Sea, which tempt the traveller 
to pluck and eat, but are filled only with dust 
and bitter ashes. 

" But we are losing time," said Lydia ; " let 
us begin our French game !" Sandford coldly 
bowed assent ! but he knew not what she said ; 
he was so inattentive, that he had to forfeit contin- 
ually ; — he spoke not; — he smiled not ; — except 
with a sort of sarcastic expression ; and Lydia felt 
conscious that she had lost him, though she knew 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 91 

not why ; for her moral sense was too dull for her 
to conceive the effect which her falsehood and 
want of feeling, towards an old and pious friend, 
had produced on him. This consciousness was a 
painful one, as Sandford was handsome, sensible, 
and rich ; therefore, he was what match-seeking 
girls (odious vulgarity !) call a good catch. Be- 
sides, Byrome had told her that she might depend 
on making a conquest of his relation, Henry Sand- 
ford. The evening, therefore, which began so 
brightly, ended in pain and mortification, both to 
Sandford and Lydia. The former w r as impatient 
to depart as soon as supper was over, and the lat- 
ter, piqued, disappointed, and almost dejected, did 
not join her sisters in soliciting him to stay. 

" Well," said Byrome, as soon as they left the 
house, " How do you like the beautiful and ac- 
complished Lydia ?" — " She is beautiful and ac- 
complished ; but that is all." — " Nay, I am sure 
you seemed to admire her exceedingly, till just 
now, and paid her more animated attention than 1 
ever saw you pay any woman before." — " True ; 
but I soon found that she was as hollow-hearted 
as she is fair." — " Oh ! 1 suppose you mean the 
deception which she practised on the old lady. 
Well; where was the great harm of that? she 
only told a white lie ; and nobdy, that is not a 
puritan, scruples to do that, you know." 

" I am no puritan, as you term it ; yet I scruple 
it; but, if I were lo be betrayed into such mean- 
ness, (and no one perhaps can be always on his 
guard,) I should blush to have it known ; but this 
girl seemed to glory in her shame,and tobeproud 
of the disgraceful readiness with which she utter- 
ed her falsehood." — " I must own that I was sur- 
prised she did not express some regret at being 
forced to do what she did, in order to prevent our 



9?2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN&. 

pleasure from being spoiled."—" Why jshould 
she? Like yourself she saw no harm in a white 
lie ; but, mark me, Byrome, the woman whom I 
marry shall not think there is such a thing as a 
white lie ; — she shall think all lies black ; because 
the intention of all lies is to deceive ; and, from 
the highest authority, we are forbidden to deceive 
one another. I assure you, that if I were mar- 
ried to Lydia, I should distrust her expressions of 
love towards me ; — I should suspect that she mar- 
ried my fortune, not me ; and that, whenever 
strong temptation offered, she would deceive me 
as readily as, for a very slight one indeed, she de- 
ceived that kind friend who came on an errand 
of love, and was sent away alarmed, and anxious, 
by this young hj^pocrite's unblushing falsehood ! 
Trust me, Byrome, that my wife shall be a strict 
moralist." — "What! a moral philosopher?" — 
" No ; a far better thing. She shall be a humble 
relying christian ; — thence she will be capable of 
speaking the truth, even to her own condemna- 
tion ;— and on all occasions, her fear of man will 
be wholly subservient to her fear of her Cre- 
ator." 

" And, pray, how can you ever be able to as- 
sure yourself that any girl is this paragon ?" — 
" Surely, if what we call chance could so easily 

exhibit to me Lydia L in ail the ugliness of her 

falsehood, it may equally, one day or other, dis- 
close to me some other girl in all the beauty of her 
truth. Till then, I hope, I shall have resolution 
enough to remain a bachelor." — " Then," replied 
Byrome, shaking his head, " I must bid you good 
night, an old bachelor in prospect and in perpetu- 
ity !" And as he returned his farewell, Sandford 
sighed to think that his prophecy was only too like- 
ly to be fulfilled ; since his observation had con- 



PROJECTS DEFEATED. 



vinced him that a strict adherence to truth, on 
little as well as on great occasions, is, though one 
of the most important, the rarest of. all virtues.*' 



CHAPTER VII. 

ON LIES OF INTEREST. 

These lies are very various, and are more ex- 
cusable, and less offensive, than many others. 

The pale ragged beggar, who, to add to the 
effect of his or her ill looks, tells of the Targe fami- 
ly which does not exist, has a strong motive to 
deceive in the penury which does ; — and one can- 
not consider as a very abandoned liar, the trades- 
man, who tells you he cannot afford to come 
down to the price which you offer, because he gave 
almost as much for the goods himself. It is not 
from persons like these that we meet with the 
most disgusting marks of interested falsehood. It 
is when habitual and petty lying profanes the 
lips of those whom independence preserves from 
any strong temptation to violate truth, and whom 
religion and education might have taught to 
value it. 

The following story will illustrate the Lies of 
Interest. 



94 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



THE SKREEN, or " NOT AT HOME." 

The widow of Governor Atheling returned 
from the East Indies, old, rich and childless ; and 
as she had none but very distant relations, her 
affections naturally turned towards the earliest 
friends of her youth ; one of whom she found still 
living, and residing in a large country-town. 

She therefore hired a house and grounds adja- 
cent, in a village very near to that lady's abode, 
and became not only her frequent but welcome 
guest. This old friend was a widow in narrow 
circumstances, with four daughters slenderly pro- 
vided for ; and she justly concluded that, if she 
and her family could endear themselves to their 
opulent guest, they should in all probability in- 
herit some of her property. In the meanwhile, 
as she never visited them without bringing with 
her, in great abundance, whatever was wanted 
for the table, and might therefore be said to con- 
tribute to their maintenance, without seeming to 
intend to do so, they took incessant pains to con- 
ciliate her more and more every day, by flatteries 
which she did not see through, and attentions 
which she deeply felt. Still, the Livingstones 
were not in spirit united to their amiable guest. 
The sorrows of her heart had led her by slow 
degrees, to seek refuge in a religious course of 
life ; and, spite of her proneness to self-deception, 
she could not conceal from herself that, on this 
most important subject the Livingstones had never 
thought seriously, and were, as yet, entirely wo- 
men of the world. But still her heart longed to 
be attached to something ; and as her starved af- 
fections craved some daily food, she suffered her- 



THE SKREEN. 95 

self to love this plausible, amusing, agreeable, and 
seemingly-affectionate family ; and she every day 
lived in hope, that, by her precepts and example, 
she should ultimately tear them from that " world 
they loved too well." Sweet and precious to 
their own souls, are the illusions of the good ; and 
the deceived East-Indian was happy, because 
she did not understand the true nature of the Liv- 
ingstones. 

On the contrary, so fascinated was she by what 
she fancied they were, or might become, that she 
took very little notice of a shame-faced, awkward, 
retiring, silent girl, the only child of the dearest 
friend that her childhood and her youth had known, 
■ — and who had been purposely introduced to her 
only as Fanny Barnwell. For the Livingstones 
were too selfish, and too prudent, to let their rich 
friend know that this poor girl was the orphan of 
Fanny Beaumont. Withholding, therefore, the 
most important part of the truth, they only inform- 
ed her that Fanny Barnwell was an orphan, who 
was glad to live amongst her friends, that she 
might make her small income sufficient for her 
wants ; taking care not to add that she was mis- 
taken in supposing that Fanny Beaumont whose 
long silence and subsequent death she had bitterly 
deplored, had died childless ; for that she had 
married a second husband, by whom she had the 
poor orphan in question, and had lived many 
years in sorrow and obscurity, the result of this 
imprudent marriage ; resolving, however, in or- 
der to avoid accidents, that Fanny's visit should 
not be of long duration. In the mean while, they 
confided in the security afforded them by what 
may be called their passive lie of interest. 
But, in order to make "assurance doubly sure," 
they had also recourse to the active lie of inter- 



b)6 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

est ; and, in order to frighten Fanny from ever 
daring to inform their visiter that she was the 
child of Fanny Beaumont, they assured her that 
that lady was so enraged against her poor mother, 
for having married her unworthy father that no 
one dared to mention her name to her ; because 
it never failed to draw from her the most violent 
abuse of her once dearest friend. " And you 
know, Fanny," they took care to add, " that you 
could not bear to hear your poor mother abused." 
— " No ; that I could not, indeed," was the weep- 
ing girl's answer ; the Livingstones therefore felt 
safe and satisfied. However, it still might not be 
amiss to make the old lady dislike Fanny, if they 
could ; and they contrived to render the poor girl's 
virtue the means of doing her injury. 

Fanny's mother could not bequeath much mo- 
ney to her child ; but she had endeavoured to en- 
rich her with principles and piety. Above all, 
she had impressed her with the strictest regard 
for truth ; — and the Livingstones artfully con- 
trived to make her integrity the means of displeas- 
ing their East-Indian friend. 

This good old lady's chief failing was believing 
implicitly whatever was said in her commenda- 
tion : net that she loved flattery, but that she lik- 
ed to believe she had conciliated good-7vill ; and 
being sincere herself, she never thought of dis- 
trusting the sincerity of others. 

Nor was she at ail vain of her once fine person, 
and liner face, or improperly fond of dress. Still 
from an almost pitiable degree of bonhommie, she 
allowed the Livingstones to dress her as they lik- 
ed ; and, as they chose to make her wear fashion- 
able and young-looking attire, in which they de- 
clared that she looked " so handsome ! and so 
well !" she believed they were the best judges of 



THE SKREEN. 97 

what was proper for her, and always replied, 
" Well, dear friends, it is entirely a matter of in- 
difference to me ; so dress me as you please ;" 
while the Livingstones, not believing that it was a 
matter of indifference, used to laugh, as soon as she 
was gone, at her obvious credulity. 

But this ungenerous and treacherous conduct 
excited such strong indignation in the usually gen- 
tle Fanny, that she could not help expressing her 
sentiments concerning it ; and by that means 
made them the more eager to betray her into of- 
fending their unsuspicious friend. They therefore 
asked Fanny, in her presence, one day, whether 
their dear guest did not dress most becomingly ? 

The poor girl made sundry sheepish and awk- 
ward contortions, now looking down, and then look- 
ing up ; — unable to lie, yet afraid to tell the truth. 
— " Why do you not reply, Fanny ?" said the art- 
ful questioner. " Is she not well dressed ?" — 
" Not in my opinion," faltered out the distressed 
girl. " And, pray, Miss Barnwell," said the old 
lady, " what part of my dress do you disap- 
prove ?" After a pause, Fanny took courage to re- 
ply, u all of it, madam."—" Why ? do you think 
it too young for me ?" — " I do." — " A plain spok- 
en young person that !" she observed in a tone of 
pique ; — while the Livingstones exclaimed, " im- 
pertinent ! ridiculous !" — and Fanny was glad to 
leave the room, feeling excessive pain at having 
been forced to wound the feelings of one whom 
she wished to be permitted to love, because she 
had once been her mother's dearest friend. Af- 
ter this scene, the Livingstones, partly from the 
love of mischief, and partly from the love of fun 
used to put similar questions to Fanny, in the old 
lady's presence, till, at last, displeased and indig- 



98 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

nant at her bluntness and ill-breeding, she scarce- 
ly noticed or spoke to her. In the meanwhile, 
Cecilia Livingstone became an object of increas- 
ing interest to her ; for she had a lover to whom 
she was greatly attached ; but who would not be 
in a situation to marry for many years. 

This young man was frequently at the house, 
and was as polite and attentive to the old lady, 
when she was present, as the rest of the family ; 
but, like them, he was ever ready to indulge in a 
laugh at her credulous simplicity, and especially 
at her continually expressing her belief, as well 
as her hopes, that they were all beginning to 
think less of the present world and more of the 
next ; and as Alfred Lawrie, (Cecilia's lover,) as 
well as the Livingstones, possessed no inconsider- 
able power of mimickry, they exercised them with 
great effect on the manner and tones of her whom 
they called the over-dressed saint, unrestrained, 
alas ! by the consciousness that she was their 
present, and would, as they expected, be their 
future, benefactress. 

That confiding and unsuspecting being was, 
meanwhile, considering that though her health was 
injured by a long residence in a warm climate, 
she might still live many years ; and that, as Ce- 
cilia might not therefore possess the fortune which 
she had bequeathed to her till " youth and genial 
years were flown," it would be better to give it to 
her during her lifetime. " I will do so," she said 
to herself (tears rushing into her eye as she 
thought of the happiness which she was going to 
impart,) " and then .the young people can marry 
directly !" 

She took this resolution one day when the Liv 
ingstones believed that she had left her home on a 



THE SXREEN. 9d 

visit. Consequently, having no expectation of 
seeing her for some time, they had taken advan- 
tage of her long vainly-expected absence to make 
some engagements which they knew she would 
have excessively disapproved. But though, as 
yet, they knew it not, the old lady had been forc- 
ed to put off her visit ; a circumstance which she 
did not at all regret, as it enabled her to go soon- 
er on her benevolent errand. 

The engagement of the Livingstones for that 
day was a rehearsal of a private play at their 
house, which they were afterwards, and during 
their saintly friend's absence, to perform at the 
house of a friend ; and a large room, called the 
library, in which there was a wide, commodious 
skreen, was selected as the scene of action. 

Fanny Barnwell, who disliked private and oth- 
er theatricals as much as their old friend herself, 
was to have no part in the performance ; but, as 
they were disappointed of their prompter that 
evening, she was, though with great difficulty, per- 
suaded to perform the office, for that night only* 

It was to be a dress rehearsal ; and the parties 
were in the midst of adorning themselves, when 
to their great consternation, they saw their suppos- 
ed distant friend coming up the street, and evi- 
dently intending them a visit. What was to be 
done ? To admit her was impossible. They 
therefore called up a new servant, who only came 
to them the day before, and who did not know 
the worldly consequence of their unwelcome 
guest ; and Cecilia said to her, " you see that 
old lady yonder ; when she knocks, be sure to 
say that we are not at home ; and you had better 
add, that we shall not be home till bed-time ;" thus 
adding the lie of convenience to other deceptions. 



100 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Accordingly, when she knocked at the door, the 
girl spoke as she was desired to do, or rather she 
improved upon it ; for she said that " her ladies 
had been out all day, and would not return till 
two o'clock in the morning." — "Indeed! that is 
unfortunate 5" said their disappointed visiter, 
stopping to deliberate whether she should not 
leave a note of agreeable surprise for Cecilia ; 
but the girl, who held the door in her hand, seem- 
ed so impatient to get rid of her, that she resolved 
not to write, and then turned away. 

The girl was really in haste to return to the 
kitchen ; for she was gossiping with an old fellow- 
servant. She therefore neglected to go back to 
her anxious employers ; but Cecilia ran down the 
back stairs, to interrogate her, exclaiming, " Well ; 
what did she say ! J hope she did not suspect 
that we were at home." — " No, to be sure not, 
Miss ; — how should she ? — for I said even more 
than you told me to say," repeating her addi- 
tions; being eager to prove her claim to the con- 
fidence of her new mistress. w But are you sure 
that she is really gone from the door ?" — " To be 
sure, Miss." — " Still, I wish you could go and 
see ; because we have not seen her pass the win- 
dow, though we heard the door shut." — " Dear 
me, Miss, how shouid you ? for I looked out after 
her, and I saw her go down the street under the 
windows, and turn .... yes, — 1 am sure that I 
saw her turn into a shop. However, I will go and 
look, if you desire it." She did so ; and certainly 
saw nothing of the dreaded guest. Therefore, 
her young ladies finished their preparations, de- 
void of fear. But the truth was, that the girl, lit- 
tle aware of the importance of this unwelcomed 
lady, and concluding she could not be a friend. 



THE SKREEN. 101 

but merely some troublesome nobody, showed her 
contempt and her anger at being detained so long, 
by throwing to the street-door with such violence, 
that it did not really close; and the old lady, who 
had ordered her carriage to come for her at a cer- 
tain hour, and was determined, on second thoughts, 
to sit down and wait for it, was able, unheard, to 
push open the door, and to enter the library un- 
perceived ; — for the girl lied to those who bade 
her lie, when she said she saw her walk away. 

In that room Mrs. Atherling found a sofa ; and 
though she wondered at seeing a large skreen 
opened before it, she seated herself on it, and, be- 
ing fatigued with her walk, soon fell asleep. But 
her slumber was broken very unpleasantly ; for 
she heard, as she awoke, the following dialogue, 
on the entrance of Cecilia and her lover, accom- 
panied by Fanny. " Well — I am so glad we got 
rid of Mrs. Atherling so easily !" cried Cecelia. 
" That new girl seems apt. Some servants deny 
one so as to show one is at home." — " I should like 
them the better for it," said Fanny. " I hate to 
see any one ready at telling a falsehood." — " Poor 
little conscientious dear !" said the lover, mimick- 
ing her, " one would think the dressed-up saint 
had made you as methodistical as herself." 
" What, I suppose, Miss Fanny, you would have 
had us let the old quiz in." — u To be sure I would ; 
and I wonder you could be denied to so kind a 
friend. — Poor dear Mrs. Atherling ! how hurt she 
would be, if she knew you were at home !" — "Poor 
dear* indeed ? Do not be so affected, Fanny. 
How should you care for Mrs. Atherling, when 
you know that she dislikes you !" — " Dislikes me ! 
Oh yes ; I fear she does !" — " I am sure she does," 
replied Cecilia ; " for you are downright rude to 
y 



102 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

her. Did you not say, only the day before yes- 
terday, when she said, There, Miss Barnwell, I 
hope I have at last gotten a cap which you like, — 
No ; I am sorry to say you have not !" — " To be 
sure I did ; — 1 could not tell a falsehood even to 
please Mrs. Atherling, though she was my own 
dear mother's dearest friend." — " Your mother's 
friend, Fanny ? I never heard that before ;" said 
the lover. " Did you not know that, Alfred ?" said 
Cecilia , eagerly adding, " but Mrs. Atherling 
does not know it ;" giving him a meaning look, as 
if to say, " and do not you tell her." — " Would 
she did know it !" said Fanny mournfully, " for, 
though I dare not tell her so, lest she should abuse 
my poor mother, as you say she would, Cecilia, 
because she was so angry at her marriage with 
my misguided father, still, I think she would look 
kindly on her once dear friend's orphan child, and 
like me, in spite of my honesty." — u No, no, silly 
girl ; honesty is usually its own reward. Alfred, 
what do you think ? Our old friend, who is not 
very penetrating, said one day to her, I suppose 
you think my caps too young for me ; and that 
true young person replied, Yes, madam, I do." — 
•' And would do so again, Cecilia ; — and it was 
far more friendly and kind to say so than flatter 
her on her dress, as you do, and then laugh at it 
when her back is turned. I hate to hear any one 
mimicked and laughed at ; and more especially 
my mamma's old friend." — " There, there, child ! 
your sentimentality makes me sick. But come ; 
let us begin." — " Yes," cried Alfred, " let us re- 
hearse a little, before the rest of the party come. 
1 should like to hear Mrs. Atherling's exclama- 
tions, if she knew what we were doing. She would 
say thus :" .... Here he gave a most accurate 



THE SKREEN. 105 

representation of the poorold lady's voice and man- 
ner, and her fancied abuse of private theatricals, 
while Cecilia cried, " bravo ! bravo !" and Fan- 
ny, " shame! shame !" till the other Livingstones, 
and the rest of the company, who now entered, 
drowned her cry in their loud applauses and loud- 
er laughter. 

The old lady, whom surprise, anger and wound- 
ed sensibility, had hitherto kept silent and still in 
her involuntary hiding-place, now rose up, and, 
mounting on the sofa, looked over the top of the 
skreen, full of reproachful meaning, on the con- 
scious offenders ! 

What a moment, to them, of overwhelming sur- 
prise and consternation ! The cheeks, flushed 
with malicious triumph and satirical pleasure, be- 
came covered with the deeper blush of detected 
treachery, or pale withhfear of its consequences ; 
— and the eyes, so lately beaming with ungener- 
ous, injurious satisfaction, were now cast, wifh 
painful shame, upon the ground, unable to meet 
the justly indignant glance of her, whose kindness 
they had repaid with such palpable and base in- 
gratitude ! " An admirable likeness indeed, Al- 
fred Lawrie," said their undeceived dupe, break- 
ing her perturbed silence, and coming down from 
her elevation ; " but it will cost you more than 
you are at present aware of. — But who art thou ?" 
she added, addressing Fanny (who, though it might 
have been a moment of triumph to her, feit and 
looked as if she had been a sharer in the guilt,) 
" Who art thou, my honourable, kind girl ? And 
who was your- mother ?" — " Your Fanny Beau- 
mont," replied the quick-feeling orphan, bursting 
into tears. " Fanny Beaumont's child ! and it 
was concealed from me !" said she, folding the 



104 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

weeping girl to her heart* " But it was all of a 
piece ; — all treachery and insincerity, from the 
beginning to the end. However, I am undeceived 
before it was too late." She then disclosed to the 
detected family her generous motive for the unex- 
pected visit ; and declared her thankfulness for 
what had taken place, as far as she was herself 
concerned-, though she could not but deplore, as a 
christian, the discovered turpitude of those whom 
she had fondly loved. 

" I have now," she continued, " to make amends 
to one whom I have hitherto not treated kindly ; 
but I have at length been enabled to discover an 

undeserved friend, amidst undeserved foes 

My dear child," added she, parting Fanny's dark 
ringlets, and gazing fearfully in her face, u J must 
have been blind as well as blinded, not to see your 
likeness to your dear mother.— Will you live with 
me, Fanny, and be unto me as a daughter ?" — 
" Oh, most gladly !" was the eager and agitated 
reply. fc; You artful creature 1" exclaimed Ce- 
cilia, pale with rage and mortification, " You 
knew very well that she was behind the skreen." 
— u I know that she could not know it," replied 
the old lady ; " and you, Miss Livingstone, assert 
what you do not yourself believe. But come, 
Fanny, let us go and meet my carriage ; for, no 
d®ubt your presence here is now as unwelcome as 
mine." But Fanny lingered, as if reluctant to de* 
part. She could not bear to leave the Living- 
stones in anger. They had been kind to her ; 
and she would fain have parted with them affec- 
tionately ; but they all preserved a sullen indig- 
nant silence, and scornfully repelled her advan- 
ces. — " You see that you must not tarry here, 
my good girl," observed the old lady, smiling ; 



LIES OP FIRST-RATE MALIGNITY. 105 

"so let us depart." They did so ; leaving the 
Livingstones and the lover, not deploring their 
fault, but lamenting their detection ; — lamenting 
also the hour when they added the lies of con- 
venience to their other deceptions, and had there- 
by enabled their unsuspecting dupe to detect those 
falsehoods, the result of their avaricious fears, 
which may be justly entitled the lies of interest. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

lies of first-rate malignity. 

Lies of first-rate malignity come next to be 
considered : and 1 think that I am right in assert- 
ing that such lies, — lies intended wilfully to destroy 
the reputation of men and women, to injure their 
characters in public or private estimation, and for 
ever cloud over their prospects in life, — are less 
frequent than falsehoods of any other description. 

Not that malignity is an unfrequent feeling;— 
not that dislike or envy, or jealousy, would not 
gladly vent itself in many a malignant falsehood, 
or other efforts of the same kind, against the peace 
and fame of its often innocent and unconscious 
objects; — but that the arm of the law, in some 
measure at least, defends reputations : and if it 
should not have been able to deter the slanderer 
from his purpose, it can at least avenge the slan- 
dered. 

Still, such is the prevailing tendency, in society, 
to prey on the reputations of others (especially of 



i06 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

ihose who are at all distinguished, either in public 
or private life ;) such the propensity to impute 
bad motives to good actions : so common the 
iiend-like pleasure of finding or imagining blem- 
ishes in beings on whom even a motive judging 
world in general gazes with respectful admiration 
and bestows the sacred tribute of well-earned 
praise ; that I am convinced there are many per- 
sons, worn both in mind and body by the con- 
sciousness of being the objects of calumnies and 
suspicions which they have it not in their power 
to combat, who steal broken-hearted to their 
graves, thankful for the summons of death, and 
hoping to find refuge from the injustice of their 
fellow-creatures in the bosom of their God and 
Saviour. 

With the following illustration of the lie or 
first-rate malignity 1 shall conclude my obser- 
vations on this subject. 



THE ORPHAN. 

There are persons in the world whom circum- 
stances have so entirely preserved from inter- 
course with the base and the malignant, and whose 
dispositions are so free from bitterness, that they 
can scarcely believe in the existence of baseness 
and malignity. Such persons, when they hear of 
injuries committed, and wrongs done, at the insti- 
gation of the most trivial and apparently worthless 
motives, are apt to exclaim, " You have been im- 
posed upon. No one could be so wicked as to act 



THE ORPHAN. 107 

thus upon such slight grounds ; and you are not 
relating as a sober observer of human nature and 
human action, but with the exaggerated view of a 
dealer in fiction and romance !" Happy, and 
privileged beyond the ordinary charter of human 
beings, are those who can thus exclaim ; — but the 
inhabitants of the tropics might, with equal justice, 
refuse to believe in the existence of that thing 
called snow, as these unbelievers in the moral tur- 
pitude in question refuse their credence to anec- 
dotes which disclose it. All they can with pro- 
priety assert is, that such instances have not come 
under their cognizance. Yet, even to these fa- 
voured few, I would put the following questions : 
— Have you never experienced feelings of selfish- 
ness, anger, jealousy, or envy, which, though 
habits of religious and moral restraint taught you 
easily to subdue them, had yet troubled you long 
enough to make you fully sensible of their exis- 
tence and their power ? If so, is it not easy to believe 
that such feelings, when excited in the minds of 
those not under religious and moral guidance, may 
grow to such an unrestrained excess as to lead to 
actions and lies of terrible malignity ? 

I cannot but think that even the purest and best 
of my friends must answer in the affirmative. 
Still, they have reason to return thanks to their 
Creator, that their lot has been cast amongst such 
" pleasant places ;" and that it is theirs to breathe 
an atmosphere impregnated only with airs from 
heaven. 

My lot, from a peculiar train of circumstances, 
has been somewhat differently cast ; and when I 
give the following story, to illustrate a lie of first- 
rate malignity, 1 do so with the certain knowledge 
that its foundation is truth. 



108 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

Constantia Gordon was the only child of a 
professional man, of great eminence, in a provin- 
cial town. Her mother was taken from her before 
she had attained the age of womanhood, but not 
before the wise and pious precepts which she 
gave her had taken deep root, and had therefore 
counteracted the otherwise pernicious effects of a 
showy and elaborate education. Constantia's 
talents were considerable ; and as her application 
was equal to them, she was at an early age, dis- 
tinguished in her native place for her learning and 
accomplishments. 

Among the most intimate associates of her fath- 
er, was a gentleman of the name of Overton ; a 
man of some talent, and some acquirement ; but, 
as his pretensions to eminence were not as univer- 
sally allowed as he thought that they ought to 
have been, he was extremely tenacious of his own 
consequence, excessively envious of the slightest 
successes of others, while any dissent from his dog- 
mas was an offence which his mean soul was in- 
capable of forgiving. 

It was only too natural that Constantia, as she 
was the petted, though not spoiled, child of a 
fond father, and the little sun of the circle in which 
she moved, was, perhaps, only too forward in 
giving her opinion on literature, and on some oth- 
er subjects, which are not usually discussed by 
women at all, and still less by girls at her time of 
life ; and she had sometimes ventured to disagree 
in opinion with Oracle Overton — the nickname by 
which this man was known. But he commonly 
took refuge in sarcastic observations on the igno- 
rance and presumption of women in general, and 
of blue-stocking girls in particular, while on his 



THE ORPHNN. 109 

face a grin of conscious superiority contended with 
the frown of pedantic indignation. 

Hitherto this collision of wits had taken place 
in Constantia's domestic circle only ; but, one day, 
Overton and the former met at the house of a 
nobleman in the neighbourhood, and in company 
with many persons of considerable talent. While 
they were at table, the master of the house said 
that it was his birth-day ; and some one immedi- 
ately proposed that all the guests, who could write 
verses, should produce one couplet at least, in 
honour of the day. 

But as Overton and Constantia were the only 
persons present who were known to be so gifted, 
they alone were assailed with earnest entreaties to 
employ their talents on the occasion. The latter, 
however, was prevented by timidity from compli- 
ance ; and she persevered in her refusal, though 
Overton loudly conjured her to indulge the com- 
pany with a display of her wonderful genius ; ac- 
companying his words with a sarcastic smile, 
which she well understood. Overton's muse, there- 
fore, since Constantia would not let hers enter into 
the competition, walked over the course ; having 
been highly applauded for a mediocre stanza of 
eight doggrel lines. But, as Constantia's timidity 
vanished when she found herself alone with the 
ladies in the drawing-room, who were most of 
them friends of hers, she at length produced some 
verses, which not only delighted her affectionate 
companions, but, when shown to the gentlemen, 
drew from them more and warmer encomiums 
than had been bestowed on the frothy tribute of 
her competitor; while the writhing and mortified 
Overton forced himself to say they were very 
well, very well indeed, for a scribbling Miss of six- 
10 



110 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

teen ; insinuating at the same time that the pre 
tended extempore was one written by her father 
at home, and gotten by heart by herself. But 
the giver of the feast declared that he had forgot- 
ten it was his birth-day, till he sat down to' table ; 
therefore, as every one said, although the verses 
were written by a girl of sixteen only, they would 
have done honour to a riper age, Overton gained 
nothing, but added mortification from his mean at- 
tempt to blight Constantia's well-earned laurels, 
especially as his ungenerous conduct drew on him 
severe animadversions from some of the other 
guests. His fair rival also unwittingly deepened 
his resentment against herself, by venturing, in a 
playful manner, being emboldened by success, to 
dispute some of his paradoxes ; — and once she did 
it so successfully, that she got the laugh against 
Overton, in a manner so offensive to his self-love, 
that he suddenly left the company, vowing re- 
venge in his heart, against the being who had thus 
shone at his expense. However, he continued to 
visit at her father's house ; and was still consider- 
ed as their most intimate friend. 

Constantia, meanwhile, increased not only both 
in beauty and accomplishments, but in qualities of 
a more precious nature ; namely, in a knowledge 
of her christian duties. But her charities were 
performed in secret, and so fearful was she of be- 
ing deemed righteous overmuch, and considered 
as an enthusiast, even by her father himself, that 
the soundness of her religious character was 
known only to the sceptical Overton, and two or 
three more of her associates, while it was a noto- 
rious fact, that the usual companions of her father 
and herself were freethinkers and latitudinarians, 
both in politicks and religion. But, if Constantia 



THE ORPHANS. Ill 

did not lay open her religious faith to.those by 
whom she was surrounded, she fed its lamp in her 
own bosom, with never-ceasing watchfulness; and 
like the solitary light in a cottage on the dark and 
lonely moors, it beamed on her hours of solitude 
and retirement, cheering and warming her amidst 
surrounding darkness. 

It was to do yet more for her. It was to sup- 
port her, not only under the sudden death of a fa- 
ther whom she tenderly loved, but under the un- 
expected loss of income which his death occasion- 
ed. On examining his affairs, it was discovered 
that, when his debts were all paid, there would be 
a bare maintenance only remaining for the afflict- 
ed orphan. Constantia's sorrow, though deep, 
was quiet and gentle as her nature ; and she felt, 
with unspeakable thankfulness, that she owed the 
tranquillity and resignation of her mind to her re- 
ligious convictions alone. 

The interesting orphan had only just returned 
into the society of her friends, when a Sir Edward 
Vandeleur, a young baronet of large fortune, 
came on a visit in the neighbourhood. 

Sir Edward was the darling and pride of a high- 
ly-gifted mother, and several amiable sisters ; and 
Lady Vandeleur, who was in declining health, had 
often urged her son to let her have the satisfaction 
of seeing him married before she was taken away 
from him. 

But, it was no easy thing for a man like Sir Ed- 
ward Vandeleur to find a wife suited to him. His 
feelings were too much under a strong religious 
restraint, to admit of his falling violently in love, 
as the phrase is ; and beauty and accomplishments 
had ho chance of captivating his heart, unless 



112 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

they were accompanied by qualities which fully 
satisfied his principles and his judgment. 

It was at this period of his life that Sir Edward 
Vandeleur was introduced to Constantia Gordon, 
at a small conversation party, at the house of a 
mutual acquaintance. 

Her beauty, her graceful manners, over which 
sorrow had cast a new and sobered charm, and 
her great conversational powers, made her pre- 
sently an object of interest to Sir Edward ; and 
when he heard her story, that interest was con- 
siderably increased by pity for her orphan state 
and altered circumstances. 

Therefore, though Sir Edward saw Constantia 
rarely, and never, except at one house, he felt her 
at every interview growing more on his esteem 
and admiration ; and he often thought of the re- 
cluse in her mourning simple attire, and wished 
himself by her side, when he was courted, flatter- 
ed, attendant on a reigning belle. 

Not that he was in love ; — that is, not that he 
had imbibed an attachment which his reason 
could not at once enable him to conquer, if it 
should ever disapprove its continuance ; — but his 
judgment, as well as his taste, told him that Con- 
stantia was the sort of woman to pass life with. 
" Seek for a companion in a wife !" had always 
been his mother's advice. " Seek for a woman 
who has understanding enough to know her du- 
ties, and piety and principle enough to enable her 
to fulfil them ; one who can teach her children to 
follow in her steps, and form them for virtue here, 
and happiness hereafter!" "Surely," thought 
Sir Edward, as he recalled this natural advice, 
" I have found the woman so described in Con- 
stantia Gordon !" But he was still too prudent to 



THE ORPHAN. 1 1 8 r 

pay her any marked attention ; especially as La- 
dy Vandeleur had recommended caution. 

At this moment his mother wrote thus : 

" 1 do not see any apparent objection to the la- 
dy in question. — Still, be cautious ! Is there no 
one at — — who has known her from her child- 
hood, and can give you an account of her and her 
moral and religious principles, which can be relied 
upon ? Death, that great discoverer of secrets, 
proved that her father was not a very worthy 
man, still, bad parents have good children, and 
vice versa ; but, inquire and be wary." 

The day after Sir Edward received this letter, 
he was introduced to Overton at the house of a 
gentleman in the neighbourhood ; and at the most 
unfortunate period possible for Constantia Gor- 
don. Overton had always pretended to have a 
sincere regard for the poor orphan, and no one 
was more loud in regrets for her reduced fortune; 
but, as he was fond of giving her pain, he used to 
mingle with his pity, so many severe remarks on 
her father's thoughtless conduct, that had he not 
been her father's most familiar friend, she would 
have forbidden him her presence. 

One day having found her alone at her lodgings, 
he accompanied his expressions of affected condo- 
lence with a proposal to give her a bank-note now 
and then, to buy her a new gown ; as he was (he 
said) afraid that she would not have money suf- 
ficient to set off her charms to advantage. To 
real kindness, however vulgarly worded, Constan- 
tia's heart was ever open ; but she immediately 
saw that this offer, prefaced as it was by abuse of 
her father, was merely the result of malignity and 
coarseness combined ; and her spirit, though ha- 
bitually gentle, was roused to indignant resentment. 
10* 



1 1 4 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

But who, that has ever experienced the bitter- 
ness of feeling excited by the cold, spiteful efforts 
of a malignant temper to irritate a gentle and gene- 
rous nature, can withhold their sympathy and 
pardon from Constantia on this occasion ? At 
last, gratified at having made his victim a while 
forego her nature, and at being now enabled to 
represent her as a vixen ; he took his leave with 
hypocritical kindness, calling her his "naughty 
scolding Con^ leaving her to humble herself be- 
fore that Being whom she feared to have offended 
by her violence, and to weep over the recollec- 
tion of an interview which had added, to her other 
miseries, that of self-reproach. 

Overton, meanwhile, did not retire unhurt from 
the combat. The orphan had uttered, in her ago- 
ny, some truths which he could not forget. She 
had held up to him a mirror of himself, from which 
he found it difficult to turn away, while in propor- 
tion to his sense of suffering was his resentment 
against its fair cause j and his desire of revenge 
was in proportion to both. 

It was on this very day that he dined in com- 
pany with Sir Edward Vandeleur, who was soon 
informed, by the master of the house, that Overton 
had been, from her childhood, the friend and in- 
timate of Constantia Gordon ; and the same gen- 
tleman informed Overton, in private, that Sir Ed- 
ward was supposed to entertain thoughts of pay- 
ing his addresses to Constantia. 

Inexpressible was Overton's consternation at 
hearing that this girl, whose poverty he had in- 
sulted, whom he disliked because she had been a 
thorn to his self-love, and under whose just se- 
verity he was still smarting, was likely, not only 
'm be removed from his power to torment 



THE ORPHAN. 115 

her, but to be raised above him by a fortunate 
marriage. 

Great was his triumph, therefore, when Sir Ed- 
ward, before they parted, requested an in- 
terview with him the following morning, at his 
lodgings in the town of , adding, that he wish- 
ed to ask him some questions concerning their mu- 
tual friend, Constantia Gordon. 

Accordingly they met ; and the following con- 
versation took place. Sir Edward began by can- 
didly confessing the high opinion which be had 
conceived of Constantia, and his earnest wish to 
have its justice confirmed by the testimony of her 
oldest and most intimate friend. " Sir Edward," 
replied the exulting hypocrite, with well-acted re- 
luctance, " you put an honourable and a kind- 
hearted man, like myself, into a complete embar- 
ras" — " Sir, what do 1 hear ?" cried Sir Edward 
starting from his seat, " Can you feel any embar- 
rassment, when called upon to bear testimony in 
favour of Constantia Gordon ?" — " 1 dare say you 
cannot think such a thing possible," he replied 
with a sneer ; " for men in love are usually blind." 
— " But I am not in love yet," eagerly replied Sir 
Edward ; " and it very much depends on this 
conversation whether 1 ever am so with the lady 
in question." — " Well then, Sir Edward, however 
unpalatable, I must speak the truth. I need not 
tell you that Constantia is beautiful, accomplished, 
and talented, is, 1 think, the new word." — " No, sir ; 
I already know she is all these ; and she appears to 
me as gentle, virtuous, and pious, as she is beauti- 
ful." — " I dare say she does ; but, as to her gen- 
tleness, however I might provoke her improperly ; 
— but, 1 assure you, she flew into such a passion 
with me yesterday, that I thought she would have 



116 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

struck me !" — " Is it possible? I really feel a dif* 
ficulty in believing you !" — " No doubt ; — so let 
us talk of something else." — " No, no, — Mr. Over- 
ton ; I came hither to be informed on a subject 
deeply interesting to me, and, at whatever risk of 
disappointment, 1 will await all you have to say.'* 
— " I have nothing to say, Sir Edward, you know 
Con is beautiful and charming; and is not that 
enough?" — "No! it is not enough. Outward 
graces are not sufficient to captivate and fix me, 
unless they are accompanied by charms that fade 
not with time, but blossom to eternity.'* — " Whew!** 
exclaimed Overton, with well-acted surprise, " I 
see that you are a methodist, Sir Edward ; and if 
so, my friend Con will not suit you." — " Does it 
follow that I am a methodist, because 1 require 
that my wife should be a woman of pious and 
moral habits ?" — " Oh ! for morals, these, indeed, 
my friend Con would suit you well enough. Let 
her morals pass ; — but as to her piety, religion will 
never turn her head." — '* What do you mean, Mr. 
Overton ?" — u Why, sir, our lovely friend has 
learned from the company which she has kept, to 
think freely on such subjects ; — very freely ; — 
for women, you know, always go to extremes. 
Men keep within the rational bounds of deism ; but 
the female sceptic, weaker in intellect, and incapa- 
ble of reasoning, never rests, till she loses herself 
in the mazes and absurdities of atheism." Had 
Sir Edward Vandeleur seen the fair smooth skin 
of Constantia suddenly covered with leprosy, he 
would not have been more shocked than he was 
at being informrd of this utter blight to her mental 
beauty in his rightly judging eyes ;— and, starting 
from his seat, he exclaimed, " do you really mean 
to assert that your fair friend is an atheist?" — 



THE ORPHAN. 117 

— " Sir Edward, I am Constantia's friend ; and I 
was her father's friend ; and I am sorry these 
things have been forced from me ; — but I could 
not deceive an honourable man, who placed con- 
fidence also in my honour ; though, as Constantia 
is the child of an old friend, and poor, it would be, 
perhaps, a saving to my pocket, if she were well 
married." — li Then, it is true !" said Sir Edward, 
clasping his hands in agony ; " and this lovely 
girl is what 1 hate to name ! Yet, she looks so 
right-minded ! and I have thought the expression 
of her dark blue eye was that of pious resignation 1" 
— " Yes, yes ; I know that look ; and she knows 
that is her prettiest look. That eye, half turned 
up, shows her fine long dark eyelashes to great 
advantage !" — " Alas ["replied Sir Edward, deep- 
ly sighing, "if this be so — oh 1 w 7 hat are looks ? 
Good morning. You have distressed, but you 
have saved me." — When Overton, soon after, saw 
Sir Edward drive past in his splendid curricle, he 
exulted that he had prevented Constantia from 
ever sitting there by his side. 

Yet he was, as I have said before, one of^the 
few who knew how deeply and sincerely Constan- 
tia was a believer ; for he had himself, in vain at- 
tempted to shake her belief, and thence, he had 
probably a double pleasure in representing her as 
he did. 

Sir Edward was engaged that evening to meet 
Constantia at the accustomed house ; and, as his 
attentions to her had been rather marked, and her 
friends, with the usual dangerous officiousness on 
such occasions, had endeavoured to convince her 
that she had made a conquest, as the phrase is, of 
the young baronet, the expectation of meeting him 
was become a circumstance of no small interest to 



118 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

her ; though she was far too humble to be con- 
vinced that they were right in their conjectures. 

But the mind of Gonstantia was too much under 
the guidance of religious principle, to allow her to 
love any man, however amiable, unless she was 
sure of being beloved by him. She was too deli- 
cate, and had too much self respect, to be capa- 
ble of such a weakness ; she therefore escaped 
that danger, of which I have seen the peace of 
some young women become the victim ; namely, 
that of being talked and flattered into a hopeless 
passion by the idle wishes and representations of 
gossiping acquaintances. And well was it for her 
peace that she had been thus holily on her guard ; 
for, when Sir Edward Vandeleur, instead of keep- 
ing his engagement, sent a note to inform her 
friend that he w 7 as not able to wait on her, as he 
thought of going to London the next day, Constan- 
tia felt that the idea of his attachment was as un- 
founded as it had been pleasing, and she rejoiced 
that the illusion had not been long enough to en- 
danger her tranquillity. Still, she could not but 
own, in the secret of her heart, that the prospect 
of passing life with a being apparently so suited to 
herself, was one on which her thoughts had dwelt 
with involuntary pleasure ; and a tear started to 
her eyes, at the idea that she might see him no 
more. But, she considered it as the tear of weak- 
ness, and though her sleep that night was short, it 
was tranquil, and she rose the next morning to re- 
sume the duties of the day with her accustomed 
alacritjr. I n her walks she met Sir Edward, but 
happily for her, as he was leaning on Overton's 
arm, whom she had not seen since she had parted 
with him in anger, a turn was given to her feelings, 
by the approach of the latter, which enabled her 



THE ORPHAN. 119 

to conquer at once her emotion at the unexpected 
sight of the former. Still the sight of Overton 
occasioned in her disagreeable aad painful recol- 
lections, which gave an unpleasing and equivocal 
expression to her beautiful features, and enabled 
Overton to observe, " You see, Sir Edward, how 
her conscience flies in her face at seeing me ! 
How are you ? How are you ?" said Overton, 
catching her hand as she passed. — " Have you 
forgiven me yet ? Oh ! you vixen, how you scold- 
ed me the other day !" Constantia, too much 
mortified and agitated to speak, and repel the 
charge, replied by a loo"k of indignation ; and, 
snatching her hand away, she bowed to Sir Ed- 
ward, and hastened out of sight. " You see," 
cried Overton, " that she resents still ! and how 
like a fury she looked ! You must be convinced 
that 1 told you the truth. Now, could you be- 
lieve, Sir Edward, that pretty Con could have 
looked in that manner ?" — " Certainly not; and 
appearances are indeed deceitful." Still, Sir Ed- 
ward wished Constantia had given him an oppor- 
tunity of bidding her farewell ; however, he left 
his good wishes and respects for her with their 
mutual friend, and set off that evening to join his 
mother at Hastings. " But are you sure, Ed- 
ward," said Lady Vandeleur, when he had re- 
lated to her all that had passed, " that this Over- 
ton is a man to be depended upon ?" — " Oh, yes ! 
and he could have no motive for calumniating her, 
but the contrary, as it would have been a relief to 
his mind and pocket to £et his old friend's daugh- 
ter well married." — ■" But, cjpes she appear to her 
other friends neglectful of. her religious duties, as 
if she had really no religion at all ?"' — " So far 
from it, that she has always been punctual in the 



120 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

outward performance of them ; therefore, no one 
but Overton, the confidential friend and intimate of 
the family, could suspect or know her real opin- 
ions ; thus she adds, I fear, hypocrisy to scepticism. 
Overton also accuses her of being violent in her 
temper ; and I was unexpectedly enabled to see 
the truth of this accusation, in a measure, confirm- 
ed. Therefore, indeed, dear mother, all I have 
to do is to forget her, and resume my intention of 
accompanying 3 r ou and my sisters to the conti- 
nent." Accordingly they set off very soon on a 
foreign tour. - 

Constantia, after she left Overton and Sir Ed- 
ward so hastily and suddenly, returned home in 
no enviable state of mind; because she felt sure 
that her manner had been such as to convince the 
latter that she was the violent creature which Over- 
ton had represented her to be ; — and though she 
had calmly resigned all idea of being beloved by 
Sir Edward Vandeleur, she was not entirely in- 
different to his good opinion. Besides, she feared 
that her quitting him, without one word of kind 
farewell, might appear to him a proof of pique and 
disappointment ; nor could she be quite sure that 
souiewhat of that feeling did not impel her to has- 
ten abruptly away ; and it was some time before 
she could conquer her self-blame and her regret. 
But at length, she reflected that there was a want 
of proper self-government in dwelling at all on re- 
collections of Sir Edward Vandeleur ; and she forc- 
ed herself into society and absorbing occupation. 

Hitherto Constantia had been contented to re- 
main in idleness; but, as her income was, she 
found, barely equal to her maintenance, and she 
was therefore obliged to relinquish nearly all her 
charities, she resolved to turn her talents to ac- 



THE ORPHAN. 121 

count ; and was just about to decide between two 
plans, which she had thought desirable, when an 
uncle in India died, and the question was decided 
in a very welcome and unexpected manner. Till 
this gentleman married, her father had such large 
expectations from him, that he had fancied them a 
sufficient excuse for his profuse expenditure ; but, 
when his brother, by having children, destroyed 
his hopes of wealth from that quarter, he had not 
strength of mind enough to break the expensive 
habits which he had acquired. To the deserving 
child, however, was destined the wealth withheld 
from the undeserving parent. Constantia's uncle's 
wife and children died before he did, and she be- 
came sole heiress to his Urge fortune. This event 
communicated a sensation of gladness to the whole 
town in which the amiable orphan resided. 

Constantia had borne her faculties so meekly, 
had been so actively benevolent, and was thence 
so generally beloved, that she was now daily over- 
powered with thankful and pleasing emotion, at 
beholding countenances which, at sight of her, 
were lighted up with affectionate sympathy and joy. 

Overton was one of the first persons whom she 
desired to see, on this accession of fortune. Her 
truly christian spirit had long made her wish to 
hold out to him her hand, in token of forgiveness; 
but she wished to do so more especially now, be- 
cause he could not suspect her of being influenued 
by any mercenary views. Overton, however, 
meant to call on her, whether she invited him or 
not ; as, such was his love and respect for wealth, 
that, though the poor Constantia was full of faults 
in his eye, the rich Constantia was very likely to 
appear to him, in time, impeccable. He was at 
this period Mayor of the place in which he lived ; 
11 



122 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and having been knighted for carrying up an ad- 
dress, he became desirous of using the privilege, 
which according to Shakspeare's Falconbridge, 
knighthood gives a man, o{ making " any Joan a 
lady." Nor was it long before he entertained se- 
rious thoughts of marrying ; and why not ? as he 
was only fifty; was very young-looking for his 
age; was excessively handsome still; and had 
now a title, in addition to a good fortune. The 
only difficulty was to make a choice ; for he was 
very sure that h% must be the choice of any one 
to whom he offered himself. 

But where could he find in one woman all the 
qualities which he required in a wife ! She must 
nave youth, and beauty, or he could not love her; 
good principles, or he could not trust her ; and, 
though he was not religious himself, he had a cer- 
tain consciousness that the best safeguard for a 
woman's principles was to be found in piety ; there' 
fore, he resolved that his wife should be a religious 
woman. Temper, patience, and forbearance, 
were also requisites in the woman he married ; 
and, as the last and best recommendation, she 
must have a large fortune. Reasonable man ! 
youth, beauty, temper, virtue, piety, and riches ! 
but what woman of his acquaintance possessed 
all these ? No one, he believed, but that forgiving 
being whom he had represented as an atheist ; — 
44 that vixen Con l 1 ' and while this conviction came 
over his mind, a blush of shame passed over even 
his brassy brow. — However, it was soon succeed- 
ed by one of pleasure, wbem he thought that, as 
Constantia was evidently uneasy till she had made 
it up with him, as the phrase is, it was not unlikely 
that she had a secret liking to him ; and as to her 
scribbling verses, and pretending to be literary, 



THE ORPHAN, 133 

he would take care that she should not write when 
she was his wife ; and he really thought he had 
better propose to her at once, especially as it was 
a duty in him to make her a lady himself, since he 
had prevented another man's doing so. There 
was perhaps another inducement to marry Con- 
stantia. It would give him an opportuuity of tor- 
menting her now and then, and making her smart 
for former impertinences. Perhaps, this motive 
was nearly as strong as the rest. Be that as it 
may, Overton had, at length, the presumption to 
make proposals of marriage to the young and love- 
ly heiress, who, though ignorant of his base con- 
duct to her, and the lie of first-rate malignity 
with which he had injured her fame, and blighted 
her prospects, had still a dislike to his manners 
and character, which it was impossible for any 
thing to overcome. He was therefore refused, — 
and in a manner so decided, and, spite of herself, 
so haughty, th;U Overton's heart renewed all its 
malignity towards her ; and his manner became 
so rude and offensive, that she was constrained to 
refuse him admittance, and go on a visit to a 
friend at some distance, intending not to return 
till the house which she had purchased in a vil- 
lage near to was ready for her. But she 

had not been absent many months when she re- 
ceived a letter one evening, to inform her that her 

dearest friend at was supposed to be in the 

greatest danger, and she was requested to set off 
directly. To disobey this summons was impossi- 
ble ; and, as the mail passed the house where she 
was, and she was certain of getting on faster that 
way than any other, she resolved, accompanied 
by her servant, to go by the mail, if possible; and, 
happily, there were two places vacant. It was 



124 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

night when Constantia and her maid entered the 
coach, in which two gentlemen were already seat- 
ed ; and, to the consternation of Constantia, she 
soon saw, as they passed near a lamp, that her 
vis-a-vis was Overton ! He recognised her at the 
same moment ; and instantly began in the French 
language, to express his joy at meeting her and 
to profess the faithfulness of his fervent affection. 
In vain did she try to force conversation with the 
other passenger, who seemed willing to talk, and 
who, though evidently not a gentleman, was much 
preferable, in her opinion, to the new Sir Richard. 
He would not allow her to attend to any conver- 
sation but his own ; and, as it was with difficulty 
that she could keep her hand from his rude grasp, 
she tried to change seats with her maid ; but 
Overton forcibly will; held her ; and she thought 
it was better to endure the evil patiently, than vi- 
olently resist it. When the mail stopped, that the 
passengers might sup, Constantia hoped Overton 
would, at least, leave her for a time ; but, though 
the other passenger got out, he kept his seat, and 
was so persevering, and was so much more dis- 
agreeable when the restraint imposed on him by 
the presence of others was removed, that she was 
glad when the coach was again full, and the mail 
drove off. 

Overton, however, became so increasingly of- 
fensive to her, that, at length, she assured him, in 
language the most solemn and decided, that no- 
thing should ever induce her to be his wife ; and 
that, were she pennyless, service would be more 
desirable to her than union with him. 

This roused his anger even to frenzy : and, still 
speaking French, a language which he was sure 
the illiterate man in the corner could not under- 



THE ORPHAN. 126 

stand, he told her that she refused him only be- 
cause she loved Sir Edward Vandeleur; " but," 
said he, " you have no chance of obtaining him. 
I have taken care to prevent that. 1 gave him 
such a character of you as frightened him away 

from you, and " " Base-minded man !" 

cried Constantia ; " what did you, what could 
you say against my character ?" — u< Oh ! 1 said 
nothing against your morals. 1 only told him you 
were an atheist, and a vixen, that is all : — and, 
you know, you are the latter, though not the form- 
er ; but are more like a methodist than an 
atheist !" — " And you told him these horrible 
falsehoods ! And if you had not, would he have 

did he then ? but I know not 

what I say ; and I am miserable ! Cruel, wicked 
man ! how could you thus dare to injure and mis- 
represent an unprotected orphan ! and the child 
of your friend ! and to calumniate me to him too ! 
to Sir Edward Vandeleur ! Oh it was cruel in- 
deed I" — " What ! then you wished to please him, 
did you ? answer me !" he vociferated, seizing 
both her hands in his ; M Are you attached to Sir 
Edward Vandeleur ?" But, before Constantia 
could answer no, and, while faintly screaming with 
apprehension and pain, she vainly tried to free 
herself from Overton's nervous grasp, a powerful 
hand rescued her from the ruffian gripe. Then, 
while the dawn shone brightly upon her face, 
Constantia and Overton at the same moment re- 
cognised, in her rescuer, Sir Edward Vandeleur 
himself ! 

He was just returned from France ; and was on 

his w^y to the neighbourhood of being now, 

as he believed, able to see Constantia with entire 
indifference, when as one of his horses became ill, 
11* 



126 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIKG. 

he resolved to take that place in the mail which 
the other passenger had quitted for the box ;>and 
had thus the pleasure of hearing all suspicions, all 
imputations, against the character of Constantia 
cleared off, and removed, at once, and for ever ! 
Constantia r s joy was little inferior to his own ; 
but it was soon lost in terror at the probable re- 
sult of the angry emotions of Sir Ed ward and 
Overton. Her fear, however, vanished, when the 
former assured the latter, that the man who could 
injure an innocent woman, by a lie of first-rate 
malignity, was beneath even the resentment of an 
honourable man. 

I shall only add, that Overton left the mail at 
the next stage, baffled, disgraced, and miserable ; 
that Constantia found her friend recovering ; and 
that the next time she travelled along that road, it 
was as the bride of Sir Edward Vandeleur. 



CHAPTER IX. 

LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 

I have observed, in the foregoing chapter, that 
lies of first-rate malignity are not frequent, be- 
cause the arm of the law defends reputations ; — 
but, against lies of second rate malignity, the law 
holds out no protection ; nor is there a tribunal of 
sufficient power either to deter any one from utter- 
ing them, or to punish the utterer. The lies in 
question spring from the spirit of detraction ; a 
spirit more widely diffused in society than any 
•ther ; and it gives birth to satire, ridicule, mim- 



LIES OF SECOND-RATE MALIGNITY. 127 

icry, quizzing, and lies of second-rate malignity, 
as certainly as a wet season brings snails. 

I shall now explain what I consider as lies of 
second-rate malignity ; — namely, tempting per- 
sons, by dint of flattery, to do what they are in- 
capable of doing well, from the mean, malicious 
wish of leading them to expose themselves, in 
order that their tempter may enjoy a hearty laugh 
at their expense. Persuading a man to drink 
more than his bead can bear, by assurances that the 
wine is not strong, and that he has not drunk as 
much as he thinks he has, in order to make him 
intoxicated, and that his persuaders may enjoy 
the cruel delight of witnessing his drunken silli- 
ness, his vain-glorious boastings, and those physi- 
cal contortions, or mental weaknesses, which in- 
toxication is always sure to produce. Compli- 
menting either man or woman on qualities which 
they do not possess, in hopes of imposing on their 
credulitj ; praising a lady's work, or dress, to her 
face ; and then, as soon as she is no longer pre- 
sent, not only abusing both her work and her 
dress, but laughing at her weakness, in believing 
the praise sincere. Lavishing encomiums on a 
man's abilities and learning in his presence ; and 
then, as soon as he is out of hearing, expressing 
contempt for his credulous belief in the sinceri- 
ty of the praises bestowed ; and wonder that he 
should be so blind and conceited as not to know 
that he was in learning only a smatterer, and in 
understanding just not a fool. All these are lies 
of second-rate malignity, which cannot be exceeded 
in base and petty treachery. 

The following story will, I trust, explain fully 
what, in the common intercourse of society, I con- 
sider as lies of second-rate malignity. 



128 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN 

AND 

THE YOUNG ONE. 

Nothing shows the force of habit more than the 
tenaciousness with which those adhere to econom- 
ical usages who, by their own industry and unex- 
pected good fortune, are become rich in the de- 
cline of life. 

A gentleman, whom I shall call Dr. Albany, 
had, early in life, taken his degree at Cambridge, 
as a doctor of physick, and had settled in London 
as a phj'sician ; but had worn away the best part 
of his existence in vain expectation of practice, 
when an old bachelor, a college friend, whom he 
had greatly served, died, and left him the whole 
of his large fortune. 

Dr. Albany had indeed deserved this bequest ; 
for he had rendered his friend the greatest of all 
services. He had rescued him, by his friendly 
advice and enlightened arguments, from scepti- 
cism, apparently the most hopeless ; and, both by 
precept and example, had allured him along the 
way that leads to salvation. 

But, as wealth came to Dr. Albany too late in 
life for him to think of marrying, and as he had 
no relations who needed all his fortune, he resolv- 
ed to leave the greatest part of it to those friends 
who wanted it the most. 

Hitherto, he had scarcely ever left London ; as 
he had thought it right to wait at home to receive 
business, even though business never came ; but 
now he was resolved to renew the neglected ac- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 129 

^uaintanees of his youth ; and, knowing that some 
of his early friends lived near Cheltenham, Leam- 
ington, and Malvern, he resolved to visit those wa- 
tering-places, in hopes of meeting there some of 
these well-remembered faces. 

Most men, under his circumstances, would have 
ordered a handsome carriage, and entered Chel- 
tenham in style ; but, as 1 before observed, habits 
of economy adhere so closely to persons thus sit- 
uated, that Dr. Albany could not prevail on him- 
self to travel in a manner more in apparent accor- 
dance with the acquisition of such a fortune. He 
therefore went by a cheap day-coach ; nor did 
he take a servant with him. But, though still de- 
nying indulgences to himself, the first wish of his 
heart was to be generous to others ; and, surely, 
that economy which is unaccompanied by avarice 
may, even in the midst of wealth, be denominated 
a virtue. 

While dinner was serving up, when they stopped 
on the road, Albany walked up a hill near the inn, 
and was joined there by a passenger from another 
coach. During their walk he observed a very 
pretty house on a rising ground in the distance, 
and asked his companion, who lived there. The 
latter replied that it was the residence of a cler- 
gyman, of the name of Musgrave. " Musgrave !" 
he eagerly replied, "what Musgrave? Is his 
name Augustus ?" — " Yes ;" — <" Is he married ?" — 
« Yes ;"— " Has he a family ?"— " Oh yes ; a 
large one ; six daughters, and one son ; and he 
has found it a hard task to bring them up, as he 
wished to make them accomplished. The son is 
now going to college." — " Are they an amiable 
family ?" — " Very ; the girls sing and play well, 
and draw well." — " And what is the son to be?" 



130 ILLtTSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

— u A clergyman." — " Has he any chance of a 
living ?" — " Not that I know of ; but he most be 
something ; and a legacy which the father has 
just had, of a few hundred pounds, will enable 
him to pay college expenses, till his son gets or- 
dained, and can take curacies." — " Is Musgrave," 
said Albany after a pause, " a likely man to give 
a cordial welcome to an old friend, whom he has 
not seen for many years ?" — M Oh yes ; he is very 
hospitable ; and there he is, now going into his 
own gate." — " Then I will not go on," said Alba- 
ny, hastening to the stables. " There, coach- 
man," cried he, " take your money ; and give 
me my little portmanteau." 

Augustus Musgrave had been a favourite college 
friend of Dr. Albany and he had many associa- 
tions with his name and image, which were dear 
to his heart. 

The objects of them were gone for ever ; but, 
thus recalled, they came over his mind like strains 
of long-forgotten musick, which he had loved and 
carolled in youth ; throwing so strong a feeling of 
tenderness over the recollection of Musgrave, that 
he felt an irresistible desire to see him again, and 
greet his wife and children in the language of 
glowing good-will. 

But, when he was introduced into his friend's 
presence, he had the mortification of finding that 
he was not recognized ; and was obliged to tell his ' 
name. 

The name, however, seemed to electrify Mus- 
grave with affectionate gladness. He shook his 
old friend heartily by the hand, presented him to 
his wife and daughters, and for some minutes mov- 
ed and spoke with the brightness and alacrity of 
early youth. 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 131 

But the animation was momentary. The cares 
of a family, and the difficulty of keeping up the 
appearance of a gentleman with an income not 
sufficient tor his means, had preyed on Musgrave's 
spirits ; especially as he knew himself to be in- 
volved in debt. He had also other cares. The 
weakness of his nature, which he dignified by the 
name of tenderness of heart, had made him allow 
his wife and children to tyrannize over him ; and 
his son, who was an universal quizzer, did not per- 
mit even his father to escape from his impertinent 
ridicule. But then Musgrave was assured, by his 
own family, that his son Marmaduke was a wit ; 
and that, when he was once in orders, his talents 
would introduce him into the first circles, and lead 
to ultimate promotion in his profession. 

I have before said that Dr. Albany did not tra- 
vel like a gentleman ; nor were his every-day 
clothes at all indicative of a well-filled purse. 
Therefore, though he was a physician, and a man 
of pleasing manners, Musgrave's fine lady wife, 
and her tonnish daughters, could have readily ex- 
cused him, if he had not persuaded their unex- 
pected guest to stay a week with them ; and, with 
a frowning brow, they saw the portmanteau, which 
the strange person had brought himself, carried into 
the best chamber. 

But oh ! the astonishment and the comical gri- 
mac'S with which Marmaduke Musgrave on his 
coming in from fishing, beheld the new guest ! 
Welcome smiled on one side of his face, but scorn 
sneered on the other; and when Albany retired to 
dress, he declared that the only thing which con- 
soled him for finding such a person forced on 
them, was the consciousness that he could extract 



132 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

great fun out of the old quiz, and serve him up for 
the entertainment of himself and friends. 

To this amiable exhibition the mother and 
daughters looked forward with great satisfaction ; 
while his father, having vainly talked of the dues 
of hospitality, gave in, knowing that it was in vain 
to contend ; comforting himself with the hope that, 
while Marmaduke was quizzing his guest he must 
necessarily leave him alone. 

In the meanwhile, how different were the cogi- 
tations and the plans of the benevolent Albany ! 
He had a long tete-a-tete walk with Musgrave, 
which had convinced him that his old friend was 
not happy, owing, he suspected, to his narrow in- 
come and expensive family. 

Then his son was going to college ; a dangerous 
and ruinous place ; and, while the good old man 
was dressing for dinner, he had laid plans of ac- 
tion which made him feel more deeply thankful 
than ever for the wealth so unexpectedly bestow- 
ed on him. Of this wealth he had as yet said no- 
thing to Musgrave. He was not purse-proud ; and 
when he heard his friend complain of his poverty, 
he shrunk from saying how rich he himself was. 
He had therefore simply said that he was enabled 
to retire from business ; and when Musgrave saw 
his friend's independent, economical habits, as 
evinced by his mode of travelling, he concluded 
that he had only gained a small independence, suf- 
ficient for his slender wants. » 

To those, to whom amusement is evcy thing, 
and who can enjoy fun even when it is procured 
by the sacrifice of every benevolent feelirisr, that 
evening at the rectory, when the family parly was 
increased by the arrival of some of the neighbours, 
would have been an exquisite treat ; for Manna- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 133 

duke played off the unsuspicious old man to admi- 
ration ; mimicked him even to his face, unperceiv- 
ed by him ; and having found out that Albany 
had not only a passion for musick, but unfortu- 
nately fancied he could sing himself, he urged his 
guest, by his flatteries, lies of second-rate malig- 
nity, to sing sons: after song, in order to make him 
expose himself for the entertainment of the com- 
pany, and give him an opportunity of perfecting 
his mimickry. 

Blind, infatuated, contemptible boy ! short-sight- 
ed trifleron the path of the world ! Marmaduke 
Musgrave saw not that the very persons who 
seemed to idolize his pernicious t dent must, unless 
they were lost to all sense of moral feeling, de- 
spise and distrust the youth who could play on the 
weakness of an unoffending, artless old man, and 
violate the rights of hospitality to his father's 
friend. 

But Marmaduke had no heart, and but little 
mind ; for mimickry is the lowest of the talents ; 
and to be even a successful quizzer requires no 
talent at all. But his father had once a heart, 
though cares and pecuniary embarrassments had 
choaked it up. and substituted selfishness of sensi- 
bility : the sight of his early companion had call- 
ed some of the latter quality into action ; and he 
seriously expostulated with his son on his daring 
to turn so respectable a man into ridicule. But 
Marmaduke answered him by insolent disregard ; 
and when he also said, if your friend be so silly as 
to sing, that is, do what he cannot do, am 1 not jus- 
tified in laughing at him ? Musgrave assented to 
the proposition. He might, however,have replied, 
* but you are not justified in lying, in order to 
urge him on, nor in saying, to him, 'you *can 
12 



134 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

sing,' when you know he cannot. If he be 7otak, 
it is not necessary that you should be treacherous" 
But Musgrave always came off halting from a com- 
bat with his undutiful son ; he therefore sighed, 
ceased, and turned away. On one point Marma- 
duke was right : — when vanity prompts us to do 
what we cannot do well, while conceit leads us to 
fancy that our efforts are successful, we are per- 
haps fit objects for ridicule. A consideration 
which holds up to us this important lesson ; namely, 
that our ozcn weakness alone can, for any length of 
time, make us victims of the satire and malignity 
of others. When Albany's visit to Musgrave was 
drawing near to its conclusion, he was very de- 
sirous of being asked to prolong it, as he had be- 
come attached to his friend's children, from living 
with them, and witnessing their various accom- 
plishments, and was completely the dupe of Mar- 
maduke's treacherous compliments. He was 
therefore glad when he, as well as the iMusgraves, 
was invited to dine at a house in the neighbour- 
hood, on the very day intended for his departure. 
This circumstance led them all, with one accord to 
say that he must remain at least a day longer, 
while Marmaduke exclaimed, " Go you shall not! 
Our friends would be so disappointed, if they and 
their company did not hear you sing and act that 
sweet song about Chloe ! and all the pleasure of 
the evening would be destroyed to me, dear sir, if 
you were not there !" 

This was more than enough to make Albany put 
off his departure ; and he accompanied the iVlus- 
graves to the dinner party. They dined at an 
early hour ; so early, that it was yet daylight, 
when, tea heing over, the intended amusements of 
the afternoon began, of which the most prominent 
was to be the vocal powers of the mistaken Alba- 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 135 

ny, who, without much pressing, after sundry flat- 
teries from Marmaduke, cleared his throat, and be- 
gan to sing and act the song of " Chloe." At first, 
he was hoarse, and stopped to apologize for want 
of voice ; " Nonsense !" cried Marmaduke, " you 
were never in better voice in your life ! Pray go 
on ; you are only nervous !" while the side of his 
face not next to Albany was distorted with laugh- 
ter and ridicule, Albany, believing him, continued 
his song ; and Marmaduke, sitting a little behind 
him, took off the distorted expression of his coun- 
tenance and mimicked his odd action, But, at 
this moment, the broadest splendour of the setting 
sun threw its beams into a large pier glass oppo- 
site, with such brightness, that Albany's eyes were 
suddenly attracted to it, and thence to his treach- 
erous neighbour, whom he detected in the act of 
mimicking him in mouth, attitude, and expression 
— while behind him he saw some of the company 
laughing with a degree of violence which was all 
but audible ! 

Albany paused, in speechless consternation — 
and when Marmaduke asked why " he did not 
go on, as every one was delighted," the suscepti- 
ble old man hid his face in his hands, shocked, 
mortified, and miserable, but taught and enlighten- 
ed. Marmaduke however, nothing doubting, pre- 
sumed to clap him on the back, again urging him 
to proceed ; but the indignant Albany, turning 
suddenly round, and throwing off his arm with 
angry vehemence, exclaimed, in the touching tone 
of wounded feeling, "Oh! thou serpent, that I 
would have cherished in my bosom, was it for thee 
to sting me thus? But I was an old fool : and 
the lesson, though a painful one, will, I trust be 
salutary.'" — M What is all this ? what do you mean?" 
faltered out Marmaduke ; but the rest of the par- 



136 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ty had not courage enough to speak ; and many 
of them rejoiced in the detection of baseness which, 
though it amused their depraved taste, was very 
offensive to their moral sense. " What does it 
mean ?" cried Albany, " 1 appeal to all present, 
whether they do not understand my meaning, and 
whether my resentment be not just !" — u I hope, 
my dear friend, that you acquit me," said the dis- 
tressed father. — tk Ofall," he replied, tk except of 
the fault of not having taught your son better mo- 
rals and manners- Young man !" he continued, 
" the next time you exhibit any one as your butt, 
take care that you do not sit opposite a pier glass. 
And now, sir," addressing himself to the master of 
the house. " let me request to have a postchaise 
sent for to the nearest town directly." — l * Surely, 
you will not leave us, and in anger," cried all the 
Musgraves, Marmaduke excepted. k ' l hope I do 
not go in anger, but I cannot stay,'' cried he, M be- 
cause I have lost my confidence in you." The 
gentleman of the house, who thought Albany right 
in going, and wished to make him all the amends 
he could, for having allowed Marmaduke to turn 
him into ridicule, interrupted him, to say that his 
own carriage waited his orders, and would con- 
vey him whithersoever he wished. u I thank you, 
sir, and accept your offer," he replied, w since the 
sooner I quit this company, in which I have so la- 
mentably exposed myself, the better it will be for 
you, and for us all." Having said this, he took 
the agitated Musgrave by the hand, bowed to his 
wife and daughters, who hid their confusion under 
distant and haughty airs ; then, stepping opposite 
to Marmaduke, who felt it difficult to meet ihe ex- 
pression of that eye, on which just anger and a 
seDse of injury had bestowed a power hitherto un 



J U *T 
it, h 



known to it, he addressed him thus : " Before we 



THE OLD GENTLEMAN. 137 

part, I must tell you, young man, that I intended, 
urged, I humbly trust, by virtuous considerations^ 
to expend on your maintenance at college a part 
of that large income which J cannot spend on my- 
self. I had also given orders to my agent to pur- 
chase for me the advowson of a living now on 
sale, intending to give it to you ; here is the letter, 
to prove that I speak the truth ; but 1 need not 
tell you that 1 cannot make the fortune which was 
left me by a pious friend assist a youth to take on 
himself the sacred profession of a christian minis- 
ter, who can utter falsehoods, in order to betray a 
fellow-creature into folly, utterly regardless of that 
christian precept, ;i Do unto others as ye would 
that others should do unto you." He then took 
leave of the rest of the company, and drove off, 
leaving the Musgraves chagrined and ashamed, 
and bitterly mortified at the loss of the intended 
patronage to Marmaduke, especially when a gen- 
tleman present exclaimed, u No doubt, this is the 
Dr. Albany, to whom Clewes of Trinity left his 
large fortune !" 

Albany, taught by his misadventure in this 
worldly and treacherous family, went, soon after, 
to the abode of another of hi* college friends, re- 
siding near Cheltenham. He expected to find 
this gentleman and family in unclouded prosperi- 
ty ; but they were labouring under unexpected 
adversity, brought on them by the villany of oth- 
ers : he found them however bowed in lowly re- 
signation before the inscrutable decree. On the 
pious son of these reduced, but contented, parents 
he, in due time, bestowed the living intended for 
the treacherous Marmaduke. Under their roof 
he experienced gratitude which he felt to be sin- 
cere, and affection in which he dared to confide ; 
12* 



138 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LY1N&, 

and, ultimately, he took up his abode with them, 
in a residence suited to their early prospects and 
his riches; for even the artless and unsuspecting 
can, without danger, associate and sojourn with 
those whose thoughts and actions are under the 
guidance of religious principle, and who live inthis 
world as if they every hour expected to be sum- 
moned away to the judgment of a world to come. 



CHAPTER X. 

LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 

In a former chapter I commented on those lies 
which are, at best, of a mixed nature, and are 
made up of worldly motives, of which fear and 
selfishness compose the principal part, although 
the utterer of them considers them as lies of be- 
nevolence. 

Lies of real benevolence are, like most other 
falsehoods, various in their species and degrees ; 
but, as they are, however in fact objectionable, the 
most amiable and respectable of all lies, and seem 
so like virtue that they may easily be taken for 
her children ; and as the illustiations of them, 
which 1 have been enabled to give, are so much 
more connected with our tenderest and most 
solemn feelings, than those afforded by other lies; 
I thought it right that, like the principal figures in 
a procession, they should bring up the rear. 

The lies which relations and friends generally 
think it their duty to tell an unconsciously dying 
person, are prompted by real benevolence, as are 
those which medical men deem themselves justified 
in uttering to a dying patient ; though, if the per- 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 139 

son dying, or the surrounding friends, be strictly 
religious characters, they must be, on principle, 
desirous that the whole truth should be told.* 



* Richard Pearson, the distinguished author of the life of 
William Hey of Leeds, says, in that interesting book, p. 261, 
" Mr. Hey's sacred respect for truth, and his regard for the wel- 
fare of his fellow-creatures, never permitted him intentionally 
to deceive his patients by flattering representations of their state 
of health, by assurances of the existence of no danger, when 
he conceived their situation to be hopeless, or even greatly haz- 
ardous " The duty of a medical attendant," continues he, 
" in such delicate situations, has been a subject of considerable 
embarrassment to men of integrity and conscience, who view 
the uttering of a falsehood as a crime, and the practice of de- 
ceit as repugnant to the spirit of Christianity. That a sacrifice 
of truth may sometimes contribute to the comfort of a patient, 
and be medically beneficial, is not denied ; but that a wilful 
and deliberate falsehood can, in any case, be justifiable before 
God, is a maxim not to be lightly admitted. The question may 
be stated thus : Is it justifiable for a man deliberately to violate 
a moral precept of the law of God, from a motive of prudence 
and humanity ? If this be affirmed, it must be admitted that 
it would be no less justifiable to infringe the laws of his country 
from similar motives ; and, cousequently, it would be an act of 
injustice to punish him for such a transgression. But, will it be 
contended, that the divine, or even the human legislator, must 
be subjected to the control of this sort of casuistry ? If false- 
hood, under these circumstances, be no crime, then, as uo det- 
riment can result from uttering it, very little merit can be at- 
tached to so light a sacrifice ; whereas, if it were presumed 
that some guilt were incurred, and that the physician voluntari- 
ly exposed himself to the danger of future suffering, for the sake 
of procuring temporary benefit to his patient, he would have a 
high claim upon the gratitude of those who derived the advan- 
tage. But, is it quite clear that pure benevolence commonly 
suggests the deviation from truth, and that neither the low con- 
sideration of conciliating favour, nor the view of escaping cen- 
sure, and promoting his own interest, have any share in prompt- 
ing him to adopt the measure he defends ? To assist in this 
enquiry, let a man ask himself whether he carries this caution 
and shows this kindness, indiscriminately on all occasions ; be- 
ing as fearful of giving pain, by exciting apprehension in the 
mind of the poor, as of the rich ; of the meanest, as of the most 
elevated rank. Suppose it can be shown that these humane 
falsehoods are distributed promiscuously, it may be inquired 
further, whether, if such a proceeding were a manifest breach of 
a municipal law, exposing the delinquent to suffer a very incon- 



140 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Methinks I hear some of my readers exclaim, 
can any one suppose it a duty to run the risk of 
killing friends or relations, by telling the whole 
truth ; that is, informing them that they are dying ! 
But, if the patient be not really dying, or in dan- 
ger, no risk is incurred ; and if they be near death 
which is it of most importance to consider, — their 
momentary quiet here, or their interests hereafter ? 
Besides, many of those persons who would think 
thai, for spiritual reasons merely, a disclosure of 
the truth was improper, and who declare that, on 
such occasions, falsehood is virtue, and concealment, 
humanity, would hold a different language, and 
act differently, were the unconsciously-dying per- 
son one who was known not to have made a will, 
and who had considerable property to dispose of. 
Then, consideration for their own temporal inter- 
ests, or for those of others, would probably make 
them advise or adopt a contrary proceeding. Yet, 



venient and serious punishment, a medical adviser would feel 
himself obliged to expose his person or his estate to penal con- 
sequences, whenever the circumstances of his patient should 
seem to require the intervention of a falsehood. It may be pre- 
sumed without any breach of charity, that a demur would fre- 
quently, perhaps generally, be interposed on the occasion of 
such a requisition. But, surely, the laws of the Moral Governor 
of the universe are not to be esteemed less sacred, and a trans- 
gression of them less important in its consequences, than the 
violation of a civil statute ; nor ought the fear of God to be less 
powerful in deterring men from the committing of a crime, than 
the fear of a magistrate. Those who contend for the necessity 
of violating truth, that they may benefit their patients, place 
themselves between two conflicting rules of morality ; their ob- 
ligation to obey the command of God, and their presumed duty 
to their neighbour : or in other words, they are supposed to be 
brought by the Divine Providence into this distressing alterna- 
tive of necessarily sinning against God or their fellow-crea- 
tures. When a moral and a positive duty stand opposed to each 
other, the Holy Scriptures have determined that obedience to 
the former is to be preserved, before compliance with the 
latter." 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 141 

who that seriously reflects can, for a moment, put 
worldly interests in any comparison with those of 
a spiritual nature ? But perhaps, an undue pre- 
ference of worldly over spiritual interests might 
not be the leading motive to tell truth in the one 
case, and withhold it in the other. The persons 
in question would probably be influenced by the 
conviction satisfactory to them, but awful and er- 
roneous in my apprehension, that a death-bed re- 
pentance, and death-bed supplication, must be 
wholly unavailing for the soul of the departing; 
that, as the sufferer's work for himself is wholly 
done, and his fate fixed for time, and for eternity, 
it were needless cruelty to let him know his end 
was approaching ; but that, as his work for others 
is not done, if he has not made a testamentary 
disposal of his property, it is a duty to urge him 
to make a will, even at all risk, to himself. 

My own opinion, which 1 give with great humil- 
ity, is, that the truth is never to be violated or 
withheld, in order to deceive ; but 1 know myself 
to be in such a painful minority on this subject, 
that I almost doubt the correctness of my own 
judgment. , 

lam inclined to think that lies of Benevolence 
are more frequently passive, than active, — are 
more frequently instanced in withholding and con- 
cealing the truth, than in direct spontaneous lying. 
There is one instance of withholding and conceal- 
ing the truth from motives of mistaken benevo- 
lence, which is so common, and so pernicious, that 
I feel it particularly necessary to hold up to severe 
reprehension. It is withholding or speaking only 
half the truth in giving the character of a servant. 

Many persons, from reluctance to injure the in- 
terests even of very unworthy servants, never give 
the whole character unless it be required of them. 



142 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and then, rather than tell a positive lie, they dis- 
close the whole truth. But are they not lying, 
that is, are they not meaning to deceive, when they 
withhold the truth ? 

When I speak to ladies and gentlemen respect- 
ing the character of a servant, I of course con- 
clude that 1 am speaking to honourable persons. 
I therefore expect that they should give me a cor- 
rect character of the domestick in question ; and 
should I omit to ask whether he, or she, be honest, 
or sober, I require that information on those points 
should be given me unreservedly. They must 
leave me to judge whether I will run the risk of 
hiring a drunkard, a thief, or a servant otherwise 
ill-disposed ; but they would be dishonourable if 
they betrayed me into receiving into my family, to 
the risk of my domestick peace, or my property, 
those who are addicted to dishonest practices, or 
otherwise of immoral habits. Besides, what an 
erroneous and bounded benevolence this conduct 
exhibits ! If it be benevolent towards the servant 
whom 1 hire, it is malevolent towards me, and un- 
just also. True christian kindness is just and im- 
partial in its dealings, and never serves even a 
friend at the expense of a third person. But, the 
masters and mistresses, who thus do what they 
call a benevolent action at the sacrifice of truth 
and integrity, often, no doubt, find their sin visited 
on their own heads; for they are not likely to 
have trust-worthy servants. If servants know 
that, owing to the sinful kindness and lax morality 
of their employers, their faults will not receive 
their proper punishment — that of disclosure, — 
when they are turned away, one of the most pow- 
erful motives to behave well is removed ; for those 
are not likely to abstain from sin, who are sure 
that they shall sin with impunity. Thus, then. 



LIES OF BENEVOLENCE. 143 

the master or mistress who, in mistaken kindness, 
conceals the fault of a single servant, leads the rest 
of the household into the temptation of sinning al- 
so 5 and what is fancied to be benevolent to one, 
becomes, in its consequences, injurious to many. 
But, let us now see what is the probable effect on 
the servants so skreened and befriended ? They 
are instantly exposed, by this withholding of the 
truth, to the peril of temptation, Nothing, per- 
haps, can be more beneficial to culprits, of all de- 
scriptions, than to be allowed to take the immediate 
consequences of their offences, provided those con- 
sequences stop short of death, that, most awful of 
punishments, because it cuts the offender off from 
all means of amendment ; therefore it were better 
for the interests of servants, in every point of 
view, to let them abide by the certainty of not 
getting a new place, because they cannot have a 
character from their last ; by this means the hu- 
mane wish to punish, in order to save, would be 
gratified, and, consequently, if the truth was al- 
ways told on occasions of this nature, the feelings 
of real benevolexce would, in the end, be grati- 
fied. But, if good characters are given to servants, 
or incomplete characters, that is, if their good 
qualities are mentioned, and their bad withheld, 
the consequences to the beings so mistakenly be- 
friended may be of the most fatal nature ; for, if 
ignorant of their besetting sin, the heads of the fa- 
mily cannot guard against it, but, unconsciously, 
may every hour put temptations in their way; 
while, on the contrary, had they been made ac- 
quainted with that besetting sin, they would have 
taken care never to have risked its being called 
into action. 

But who, it may be asked, would hire servan,ts ? 
knowing that they had any " besetting sins ?" 



144 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

I trust tint there are many who would do this 
from the pious and benevolent motive of saving 
them from further destruction, especially if peni- 
tence had been satisfactorily manifested. 

J will now endeavour to illustrate some of my 
positions by the following story. 



CHAPTER X. CONTINUED. 

MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 

Ann Belson had lived in a respectable mer- 
chant's family, of the name of Melbourne, for 
many years, and had acquitted herself to the satis- 
faction of her employers in successive capacities 
of nurse, house-maid, and lady's-maid. But it 
was at length discovered that she had long been 
addicted to petty pilfering ; and, being embolden- 
ed by past impunity, she purloined some valuable 
lace, and was detected : but her kind master and 
mistress could not prevail on themselves to give 
up the tender nurse of their children to the just 
rigour of the law, and as their children themselves 
could not bear to have " poor Ann sent to gaol," 
they resolved to punish her in no other manner, 
than by turning her away luillnout a character, as 
the common phrase is. But without a character 
she could not procure another service, and might 
be thus consigned to misery and ruin. This idea 
was insupportable ! However she might deserve 
punishment they shrunk from inflicting it ! and 
they resolved to keep Ann Belson themselves, as 
they could not recommend her conscientiously to 
any one else. This was a truly benevolent ac- 
tion ; because, if she continued to sin, they alone 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 145 

were exposed to suffer from her fault. But they 
virtuously resolved to put no further temptation in 
her way, and to guard her against herself, by un- 
remitting vigilance. 

During the four succeeding years, Ann Belson^s 
honesty was so entirely without a stain, that her 
benevolent friends were convinced that her peni- 
tence was sincere, and congratulated themselves 
that they had treated her with such lenity. 

At this period the pressure of the times, and 
losses in trade, produced a change in the circum- 
stances of the Melbournes ; and retrenchment be- 
came necessary. They therefore, felt it right to 
discharge some of their servants, and particularly 
the lady's maid. 

The grateful Ann would not hear of this dismis- 
sal. She insisted on remaining on any terms, 
and in any situation ; nay, she declared her wil- 
lingness to live with her indulgent friends for no- 
thing ; but, as they were too generous to accept 
her services at so great a disadvantage to herself, 
especially as she had poor relations to maintain, 
they resolved to procure her a situation ; and hav- 
ing heard of a very advantageous one, for which 
she was admirably calculated, they insisted on 
her trying to procure it. 

" But what shall we do, my dear," said the wife 
to her husband, " concerning Ann's character ? 
Must we tell the whole truth ? As she has been 
uniformly honest during the last four years, should 
we not be justified in concealing her fault ?" — 
" Yes ; 1 think, at least, I hope so," replied he. 
" Still, as she was dishonest more years than she 
has now been honest, J really .... I .... it 
is a very puzzling question, Charlotte ; and I am 
but a weak casuist." A strong christian might not 
' 13 



146 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

have felt the point so difficult. But the Mel- 
bournes had not studied serious things deeply ; 
and the result of the consultation was, that Ann 
Belson's past faults should be concealed, if possible. 

And possible it was. Lady Baryton, the young 
and noble bride who wished to hire her, was a 
thoughtless, careless woman of fashion ; and as 
she learned that Ann could make dresses, and 
dress hair to admiration, she made few other in- 
quiries ; and Ann was installed in her new place. 

It was, alas ! the most improper of places, even 
for a sincere penitent, like Ann Belson ; for it was 
a place of the most dangerous trust. Jewels, laces, 
ornaments of all kinds, were not only continually 
exposed to her eyes, but placed under her especial 
care. Not those alone. When her lady returned 
home from a run of good luck at loo, a reticule, 
containing bank-notes and sovereigns, was emptied 
into an unlocked drawer; and Ann was told how 
fortunate her lady had been. The first time that 
this heedless woman acted thus, the poor Ann beg- 
ged she would lock up her money. " Not I ; it is 
too much trouble; and why should I ?" — "Be- 
cause, my lady, it is not right to leave money 
about; it may be stolen." — " Nonsense ! who 
should steal it ? I know you must be honest ; 
the Melbournes gave you such a high character." 
Here Ann turned away in agony and confusion. 
a But, my lady, the other servants," she resumed 
in a faint voice. " Pray, what business have the 
other servants at my drawers ?— However, do you 
lock up the drawer, and keep the key." — " No ; 
keep it yourself, my lady." — M What, 1 go about 
with keys, like a house-keeper ? Take it I say !" 
Then flinging the key down, she went singingout of 
the room, little thinking to what peril, temporal 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 147 

and spiritual, she was exposing a hapless fellow- 
creature. 

For some minutes after this ntw danger had 
opened upon her, Ann sat leaning on her hands, 
absorbed in painful meditation, and communing 
seriouslj^ with her own heart ; nay, she even pray- 
ed for a few moments to be delivered from evil ; 
but the next minute she was ashamed of her own 
self-distrust, and tried to resume her business with 
her usual alacrity. 

A few evenings afterwards, her lady brought 
her reticule home, and gave it to Ann, filled as be- 
fore. " I conclude, my lady, you know how 
much money is in this purse." — " I did know ; but 
1 have forgotten."—" Then let me tell it." — "No, 
no ; nonsense !" she replied as she left the room ; 
" lock it up, and then it will be safe, you know, as 
I can trust you." Ann sighed deeply, but repeat- 
ed within herself, " Yes, yes ; lam certainly now 
to be trusted ;" but, as she said this, she saw -two 
sovereigns on the carpet, which she had dropped 
out of the reticule in emptying it, and had locked 
the drawer without perceiving. Ann felt flutter- 
ed when she discovered them ; but, taking them 
up, resolutely felt for the key to add them to the 
others ; — but the image of her recently widowed 
sister, and her large destitute family, rose before 
her, and she thought she would not return them, 
but ask her lady to give them to the poor widow. 
But then, her lady had already been very bounti- 
ful to her, and she would not ask her ; however, 
she would consider the matter, and it seemed as if 
it was intended she should have the sovereigns ; 
for they were separated from the rest, as if for her. 
Alas ! it would have been safer for her to believe 
that they were left there as a snare to try her 
penitence, and her faith ; but she look a different 



148 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

view of it; she picked up the gold, then laid it 
down ; and long ynd severe was the conflict in her 
heart between good and evil. 

We weep over the woes of romance ; we shed 
well-motived tears over the sorrows of real life ^ 
but, where is the fiction, however highly wrought, 
and where the sorrows, however acute, that can 
deserve our pity and our sympathy so strongly, as 
the agony and conflicts of a penitent, yet tempted 
soul ! Of a soul that has turned to virtue, but as 
forcibly pulled back again to vice, — that knows its 
own danger, without power to hurry from it ; till, 
fascinated by the glittering bait, as the bird by the 
rattlesnake, it yields to its fatal allurements, re- 
gardless of consequences ! It was not without 
many a heartach, many a struggle, that Ann Bel- 
son gave way to the temptation, and put the gold 
in her pocket ; and when she had done so, she 
was told her sister was ill, and had sent to beg she 
would come to her, late as it was. Accordingly, 
when her lady was in bed, she obtained leave to 
go to her, and while she relieved her sister's wants 
with the two purloined sovereigns, the poor thing 
almost fancied that she had done a good action S 
Oh ! never is sin so dangerous as when it has al- 
lured us in the shape of a deed of benevolence. 
It had so allured the Mel bournes when they con- 
cealed Ann's faults from Lady Baryton ; and its 
bitter fruits were only too fast preparing. 

" Ce n'estque le premier pas qui coute ;" says the 
proverb, or " the first step is the only difficult 
one." The next time her lady brought her win- 
nings to her, Ann pursued a new plan : she insist- 
ed on telling the money over ; but took care to 
make it less than it was, by two or three pounds. 
Not long after, she told Lady Baryton that she 
must have a new lock put on the drawer that held 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 149 

the money, as she had certainly dropped the key 
somewhere ; and that, before she missed it, some 
one, she was sure, had been trying at the lock ; 
for it was evidently hampered the last tune she 
unlocked it, " Well, then, get a new lock, 1 ' re- 
plied her careless mistress ; " however, let the 
drawer be forced now ; and then we had better tell 
over the money." The drawer was forced ; they 
told the money ; and even Lady Baryton was 
conscious that some of it was missing. But, the 
missing key* and hampered lock, exonerated Ann 
from suspicion ; especially as Ann ov\ ned that she 
had discovered the loss b< fore ; and declared that, 
had not her lady insisted on telling over the mo- 
ney, she had intended to replace it gradually ; be- 
cause she felt herself responsible : while Lady 
Baryton, satisfied and deceived, recommended her 
to be on the watch for the thief; and soon forgot 
the whole circumstance. 

Lady Baryton thought herself, and perhaps she 
was, a woman of feeling. She never read the 
Old-Bailey convictions without mourning over the 
prisoners condemned to death ; and never read 
an account of an execution without shuddering. 
Still, from want of reflection, and a high-principled 
sense of what we owe to others, especially to those 
who are the members of our own household, she 
never for one moment troubled herself to remem- 
ber that she was daily throwing temptations in the 
way of a servant to commit the very faults which 
led those convicts, whom she pitied, to the fate 
which she deplored. Alas ! what have those per- 
sons to answer for, in every situation of life, who 
consider their dependants and servants merely as 
such, without remembering that they are, like 
themselves, heirs of the invisible world to come : 
13* 



150 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and that, if they take no pains to enlighten their 
minds, in order to save their immortal souls, they 
should, at least be careful never to endanger 
them. 

In a few weeks after the dialogue given above, 
Lady Baryton bought some strings of pearls at an 
India sale ; and having, on her way thence, shown 
them to her jeweller, that he might count them, 
and see if there were enough to make a pair of 
bracelets, she brought them home, because she 
could not yet afford proper clasps to fasten them : 
and these were committed to Ann's care. But, as 
Lord Baryton, the next week, gave his lady a pair 
of diamond clasps, she sent the pearls to be made 
up immediately. In the evening, however, the 
jeweller came to tell her that there were two 
strings less than when she brought them before. 
" Then they must have been stolen!" she exclaim- 
ed ; "and now I remember that Belson told me 
she was sure there was a thief in the house." — 
"Are you sure," said Lord Baryton, " that Bel- 
son is not the thief herself?" — M Impossible! I 
had such a character of her ! and I have trusted 
her implicitly!" — "It is not right to tempt even 
the most honest," replied Lord Baryt< n ; " but 
we must have strict search made; and ali the ser- 
vants must be examined." 

They were so; but, as Ann Belson was not a 
hardened offender, she soon betraj^ed herself by 
her evident misery and terror; and was commit- 
ted to prison on her own full confession ; but she 
could not help exclaiming, in the agony of her 
heart, " Oh, my lady ! remember that I conjured 
you not to trust me !" and Lady Baryton's heart 
reproached her, at least for some hours. There 
were other hearts also that experienced self-re- 
proach, and of a far longer duration ; for the Mel- 



/ 
MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 151 

bournes, when they heard wha,t had happened, 
saw that the seeming benevolence of their con- 
cealment had been a real injury, and had ruined 
her whom they meant to save. They saw that 
had they told Lady Baryton the truth, that lady- 
would either not have hired her, in spite of her 
skill, or she would have taken care not to put her 
in situations calculated to tempt her cupidity. 
But, neither Lady Baryton's regrets, nor self re- 
proach, nor the greater agonies of the Melbmrnes. 
could alter or avert the course of justice : and 
Ann Beison was condemned to death. She was, 
however, strongly recommended to mercy, both 
by the jury and the noble prosecutor ; and her 
♦conduct in prison was so exemplary, so indicative 
of tne deep contrition of a trembling, humble 
christian, that, at length, the intercession was not 
in vain ; and the Melbournes had the comfort of 
carrying to her what was to them, at least, joyful 
news ; namely, that her sentence was commuted 
for transportation. 

Yet, even this mercy was a severe trial to the 
self-judged Melbournes ; since they had the mise- 
ry of seeing the affectionate nurse of their chil- 
dren, the being endeared to them by many years 
of active services, torn from all the tender ties of 
existence, and exiled for life as a felon to a distant 
land ! exiled loo for a crime which, had they per- 
formed their social duty, she might never have 
ccrnaiitted. But the pain of mind which they en- 
dured on this lamentable occasion was not thrown 
away on them ; as it awakened them to serious 
reflection : they learned to remember, and to teach 
their children to remember, the holy command, 
" that we are not to do evil, that good may come;" 
and that no deviation from truth and ingenuous- 
ness can be justified, even if it claims for itself the 



152 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

plausible title of the active or passive lie of be- 
nevolence. 

There is another species of withholding the 
truth, which springs from so amiable a source, and 
is so often practised even by pious christians, that, 
while I venture to say it is at variance with reli- 
ance on the wisdom and mercy of the Creator, 
I do so with reluctant awe. I mean a concealment 
of the whole extent of a calamity from the person 
afflicted, lest the blow should fall too heavily up- 
on them. 

I would ask, whether such conduct be not in- 
consistent with the belief that trials are mercies in 
disguise ? that the Almighty " loveth those whom 
he chasieneth, and scourgeth every son that he 
receivrth ?" 

If this assurance be true, we set our own judg- 
ment against that of the Deitv, by concealing from 
the sufferer the extent of the trial inflicted : and 
seem to believe ourselves more capable than he 
is to determine the quantity of suffering that is 
good for the person so visited ; and we set up our 
finite a .ainst infinite wisdom. 

TJiere are other reasons, besides religious ones, 
why this sort of deceit should no more be practis- 
ed than any other. 

The motive for withholding the whole truth, on 
these occasions, is to do good : but will the desir- 
ed good be effected by this opposition to the Crea- 
tor's revealed will towards the sufferer ? Is it 
certain that good will be performed at all, or that 
concealment is necessary ? 

What is the reason given for concealing half the 
truth ? Fear lest the whole would be more than 
the sufferer could bear ; which implies that it is 
already mighty, to an awful degree. Then, sure- 
ly, a degree more of suffering, at such a moment, 



MISTAKEN KINDNESS. 153 

cannot possess much added power to destroy , 
and if the trial be allowed to come in its full force, 
the mind of the victim will make exactly the same 
efforts as minds always do when oppressed by 
misery. A state of heavy affliction is so repul- 
sive to the feelings, that even in the first paroxysms 
of it we ail make efforts to get away from under 
its weight ; and, in proof of this assertion, I ask, 
whether we do not always find the afflicted less 
cast down than we expected ? The religious pray 
as well as weep : the merely moral look around 
for consolation here, and, as a dog, when cast into 
the sea, as soon as he rises and regains his breath, 
strikes out his feet, in order to float securely upon 
the waves ; so, be their sorrows great or small, all 
persons instantly strive to find support some- 
where ; and they do find it, while in proportion to 
the depth of the affliction is often the subsequent 
rebound. 

I could point out instances (but I shall leave my 
readers to imagine them) in which, by concealing 
from bereaved sufferers the most affecting part 
of the truth, we stand between them and the balm 
derived from that very incident which was merci- 
fully intended to heal their wounds. 

I also object to such concealment ; because it 
entails upon those who are guilty of it a series of 
falsehoods; falsehoods too, which are often fruit- 
lessly uttered ; since the object of them is apt to 
suspect deceit, and endure that restless agonizing 
suspicion, which those who have ever, experienced 
it could never inflict on the objects of their love. 

Besides, religion and reason enable us in time, 
to bear the calamity of which we know the extent ; 
but we are always on the watch to find out that 
which we only suspect, and the mind's strength, 
frittered away in vain and varied conjectures, runs 



154 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the risk of sinking beneath the force of its own in- 
distinct fears. 

Confidence too in those dear friends whom we 
trusted before is liable to be entirely destroyed ; 
an I, in all its bearings, this \\e\\-intentioned de- 
parture from truth is pregnant with mischief. 

Lastly, J object to such concealment, from a 
conviction that its continuance is impossible ; for, 
some time or other, the whole truth is revealed at 
a moment when the sufferers are not so well able 
to bear it as they were in the first paroxysms of 
grief. 

In this, my next and last tale, I give another il- 
lustration of those amiable, but pernicious lies, the 

LIES OF REAL BENEVOLENCE. 



THE FATHER AND SON. 

" Well, then, thou art willing that Edgar should 
go to a public school," snid the vicar of a small 
parish in Westmoreland to his weeping wife. 
u Quite willing."—" And yet thou art in tears, 
Susan ?" — " I weep for his faults ; and not be- 
cause he is to quit us. I grieve to think he is so 
disobedient and unruly that we can manage him 
at home no longer. — And yet I loved him so dear- 
ly ! so much more than . . . ." Here her sobs 
redoubled ; and, as Vernon rested her aching 
head on his bosom, he said, in a low voice, " Aye ; 
and so did I love him, even better than our other 
children ; and therefore, probably, our injustice 
is thus visited. But, he is so clever ! He learn- 
ed more Lntin in one week than bis brothers in a 
month !" — u And he is so beautiful /" observed his 
mother. — u And so generous !" rejoined his fath- 



THE FATHER AND SON. 155 

er ; " but, cheer up, my beloved ; under stricter 
discipline than ours he may vet do well, and turn 
out all we could wish." — **• 1 hope, however," re- 
plied the fond mother, " that his master will not 
be very severe 5 and I will try to'look forward." 
As she said this, she left her husband with some- 
thing like comfort ; for a tender mother's hopes for 
a darling child are easily revived, and she went, 
with recovered calmness, to get her son's ward- 
robe ready against the day of his departure. The 
equally affectionate father meanwhile called his 
son into the study, to prepare his mind for that 
parting which his undutiful conduct had made un- 
avoidable. 

But Vernon found that Edgar's mind required 
no preparation ; that the idea of change was de- 
lightful to his volatile nature ; and that he panted 
to distinguish himself on a wider field of action 
than a small retired village afforded to his daring, 
restless spirit ; while bis father saw with agony, 
which he could but ill conceal, that this desire of 
entering into a new situation had power to annihi- 
late all regret at leaving the lenderest of parents 
and the companions of his childhood. 

However, his feelings were a little soothed when 
the parting hour arrived ; for then the heart of 
Edgar was so melted within him at the sight of his 
mother's tears, and his father's agony, that he ut- 
tered words of tender contrition, such as they had 
never heard from him before ; the recollection of 
which spoke comfort to their minds when they be- 
held him no longer. 

But, short were the hopes which that parting 
hour had excited. In a few months the master 
of the school wrote to complain of the insubordina- 
tion of his new pupil. In his next letter he de- 
clared that be should he under the necessity of 



156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYINGo 

expelling him ; and Edgar had not been at school 
six months, before he prevented the threatened 
expulsion, only by running away, no one knew 
whither ! Nor was he heard of by his family for 
four years ; during which time, not even the duti- 
ful affection of their other sons, nor their success 
in life, had power to heal the breaking heart of 
the mother, nor cheer the depressed spirits of the 
father. At length the prodigal returned, ill, mea- 
gre, pennyless, and penitent ; and was received, 
and forgiven. " But where hast thou been, my 
child, this long, long lime ?" said his mother, ten- 
derly weeping, as she gazed on his pale sunk 
cheek. " Ask me no questions ! I am here ; that 
is enough ;" Edgar Vernon replied, shuddering as 
he spake. " It is enough !" cried his mother, 
throwing herself on his neck ! " For this, my son 
was dead, and is alive again ; was lost, and is 
found !" But the father felt and thought differ- 
ently : he knew that it was his duty to interro- 
gate his son ; and he resolved to insist on know- 
ing where and how those long four 3 7 ears had been 
passed. He, however, delayed his questions till 
Edgar's health was re-established, but when that 
time arrived, he told him that he expected to know 
all that had befallen him since he ran away from 
school." — " Spare me till to-morrow," said Edgar 
Vernon, " and then you shall know all." His fa- 
ther acquiesced ; but the next morning Edgar 
had disappeared, leaving the following letter be- 
hind him : — 

" 1 cannot, dare not, tell you what a wretch I 
have been ! though I own your right to demand 
such a confession from me. Therefore, I must 
become a wanderer again ! Pray for me, dearest 
and tenderest of mothers ! Pray for me, best of 
fathers and of men ! I dare not pray for myself, 



THE FATHER AND SON. 157 

for I am a vile and wretched sinner, though your 
grateful and affectionate son, E. V." 

Though this letter nearly drove the mother to 
distraction, it contained for the father a degree of 
soothing comfort. She dwelt only on the convic- 
tion which it held out to her, that she should pro- 
bably never behold her son again ; but he dwelt 
with pious thankfulness on the sense of his guilt, 
expressed by the unhappy writer ; trusting that 
the sinner who knows and owns himself to be 
" vile " may, when it is least expected of him, re- 
pent and amend. 

How had those four years been passed by Ed- 
gar Vernon ? That important period of a boy's 
life, the years from fourteen to eighteen ? Suf- 
fice it that, under a feigned name, in order that he 
might not be traced, he had entered on board a 
merchant ship ; that he had left it after he had 
made one voyage ; that he was taken into the ser- 
vice of what is called a sporting character, whom 
he had met on board ship, who saw that Edgar 
had talents and spirit which he might render ser- 
viceable to his own pursuits. This man, finding 
he was the son of a gentleman, treated him as 
such, and initiated him gradually into the various 
arts of gambling, and the vices of the metropolis ; 
but one night they were both surprised by the of- 
ficers of justice at a noted gaming-house ; and, af- 
ter a desperate scuffle, Edgar escaped wounded, 
and nearly killed, to a house in the suburbs. 
There he remained till he was safe from pursuit, 
and then, believing himself in danger of dying, he 
longed for the comfort of his paternal roof; he al- 
so longed for paternal forgiveness ; and the prodi- 
gal returned to his forgiving parents. 

But,-as this was a tale which Edgar might well 
14 



158 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

shrink from relating to a pure and pious father, 
flight was far easier than such a confession. Still, 
" so deceitful is the human heart, and desperately 
wicked," that I believe Edgar was beginning to 
feel the monotony of his life at home, and there- 
fore was glad of an excuse to justify to himself his 
desire to escape into scenes more congenial to his 
habits and, now, perverted nature. His father, 
however, continued to hope for his reformation, 
and was therefore little prepared for the next in- 
telligence of his son, which reached him through a 
private channel. A friend wrote to inform him 
that Edgar was taken up for having passed forged 
notes, knowing them to be forgeries; that he would 
soon be fully committed to prison for trial ; and 
would be tried with his accomplices at the ensuing 
assizes for Middlesex. 

At first, even the firmness of Vernon yielded to 
the stroke, and he was bowed low unto the earth. 
But the confiding christian struggled against the 
sorrows of the suffering father, and overcame 
them ; till, at last, he was able to exclaim, " I will 
go to him ! I will be near him at his trial ! 1 will 
be near him even at his death, if death be his por- 
tion ! And no doubt, I shall be permitted to 
awaken him to a sense of his guilt. Yes, 1 may be 
permitted to see him expire contrite before God 
and man, and calling on his name who is able to 
save to the uttermost !" But, just as he was set- 
ting off for Middlessex, his wife, who had long 
been declining, was, to all appearance, so much 
worse, that he could not leave her. She having 
had suspicions that all was not right with Edgar, 
contrived to discover the te.uth which had been 
kindly, but erroneously concealed from her, and 
had sunk under the sudden, unmitigated blow ; 
and the welcome intelligence, that the prosecutor 



THE FATHER AND SON. 150 

had withdrawn the charge, came at a moment when 
the sorrows of the bereaved husband had closed 
the father's heart against the voice of gladness. 

" This news came too late to save the poor vic- 
tim !" he exclaimed, as he knelt beside the corpse 
of her whom he had loved so long and so tender- 
ly ; " and I feel that 1 cannot, cannot yet rejoice 
in it as I oughu" But he soon repented of this 
ungrateful return to the mercy of Heaven ; and, 
even before the body was consigned to the grave, 
he thankfully acknowledged that the liberation of 
his son was a ray amidst the gloom that surround- 
ed him. 

Meanwhile, Edgar Vernon, when unexpectedly 
liberated from what he knew to be certain danger 
to his life, resolved, on the ground of having been 
falsely taken up, and as an innocent injured man, 
to visit his parents ; for he had heard of his mo- 
ther's illness 5 and his heart yearned to behold 
her once more. But it was only in the dark hour 
that he dared venture to approach his home : and 
it was his intention to discover himself at first to 
his mother only. 

Accordingly, the gray parsonage was scarcely 
visible in the shadows of twilight, when he reach- 
ed the gate that led to the back door ; at which 
he gently knocked, but in vain. No one answer- 
ed his knock ; all was still within and around. 
What could this mean ? He then walked round 
the house, and looked in at the window ; all there 
was dark and quiet as the grave ; but the church 
bell was tolling, while alarmed, awed, and over- 
powered, he leaned against the gate. At this mo- 
ment he saw two men rapidly pass along the road, 
saying, " I fear we shall be too late for the fune- 
ral ! I wonder how the poor old man will bear 
it 1 for he loved his wife dearly !"— " Aye ; and 



160 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

so he did that wicked boy, who has been the death 
©f her ;" replied the other. 

These words shot like an arrow through the not 
yet callous heart of Edgar Vernon, and, throwing 
himself on the ground, he groaned aloud in his 
agony ; but the next minute, with the speed of 
desperation, he ran towards the church, and 
reac bed it just as the service was over, the mourn- 
ers departing, and as his father was borne away, 
nearly insensible, on the arms of his virtuous 
sons. 

At such a moment Edgar was able to enter 
the church unheeded ; for all eyes were on his 
afflicted parent ; and the self-convicted culprit 
dared not force himself, at a time like that, on the 
notice of the father whom he had so grievously 
injured. But his poor bursting heart felt that it 
must vent its agony, or break ; and, ere the cof- 
fin was lowered into the vault, he rushed for- 
wards, and, throwing himself across it, called upon 
his mother's name, in an accent so piteous and 
appalling, that the assistants, though they did not 
recognize him at first, were unable to drive him 
away ; so awed, so affected, were they by the 
agony which they witnessed. 

At length he rose up and endeavoured to speak, 
but in vain ; then, holding his clenched fists to his 
forehead, he screamed out, " Heaven preserve 
my senses !" and rushed from the church with 
all the speed of desperation. But whither should 
he turn those desperate steps ! He longed, 
earnestly longed, to go and humble himself before 
his father, and implore that pardon for which his 
agonized soul pined. But, alas ! earthly pride 
forbade him to indulge the salutary feeling ; for 
he knew his worthy, unoffending brothers were in 
the house, and he could not endure the mortifica- 



THE FATHER AND SON. 161. 

don of encountering those whose virtues must be 
put in comparison with his vices. He therefore 
cast one long lingering look at the abode of his 
childhood, and fled for ever from the house of 
mourning, humiliation, and safety. 

In a few days, however, he wrote to his father, 
detailing his reasons for visiting home, and all the 
agonies which he had experienced during his short 
stay. Full of consolation was this letter to that 
bereaved and mourning heart ! for to him it seem-? 
ed the language of contrition ; and he lamentec\ 
that his beloved wife was not alive, to share in 
the hope which it gave him. " Would that he 
had come, or would now come to me !" he ex- 
claimed ; but the letter had no date ; and he 
knew not whither to send an invitation. But 
where was he, and what was he, at that period ? 
In gambling-houses, at cock-fights, sparring-match^ 
es, fairs ; and in every scene where profligacy 
prevailed the most ; while at all these places he 
had a preeminence in skill, which endeared these 
pursuits to him, and made his occasional contrition 
powerless to influence him to amendment of life. 
He therefore continued to disregard the warning 
voice within him 5 till at length, it was no longer 
heeded. 

One night, when on his way to Y , where 

races were to succeed the assizes, which had just 
commenced, he stopped at an inn, to refresh his 
horse ; and, being hot with riding, and depressed 
by some recent losses at play, he drank very free- 
ly of the spirits which he had ordered. At this 
moment he saw a school-fellow of his in the bar, 
who, like himself, was on his way to Y-— . This 

young man was of a coarse, unfeeling nature 5 
14* 



162 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and, having had fortune left him, was full of the 
consequence of newly-acquired wealth. 

Therefore, when Edgar Vernon impulsively ap- 
proached him, and, putting his hand out, asked 
how he did, Dunham haughtily drew back, put 
his hands behind him, and, .in the hearing of se- 
veral persons, replied, " I do not know you, sir !" 
— u Not know me, Dunham ?" cried Edgar Ver- 
non, turning very pale. " That is to say, I do 
not choose to know you." — " And why not V cried 
Edgar, seizing his arm, and with a look of me- 
nace. " Because .... because .... 1 do not 
choose to know a man who murdered his mo- 
ther.'" " Murdered his mother!" cried the by- 
standers, holding up their hands, and regarding 
Edgar Vernon with a look of horror. " Wretch 1" 
cried he, seizing Dunham in his powerful grasp, 
" explain yourself this moment, or " . . . . — 
" Then take your fingers from my throat !" Ed- 
gar did so ; and Dunham said, " T meant only that 
you broke your mother's heart by your ill con- 
duct ; and pray, was not that murdering her ?" 
While he was saying this, Edgar Vernon stood 
with folded arms, rolling his eyes wildly from one 
of the bystanders to the other ; and seeing, as he 
believed, disgust towards him in the countenances 
of them all. When Dunham had finished speak- 
ing, Edgar Vernon wrung his hands in agony, 
•' true, most true, I am a murderer ! I am a par- 
ricide !" Then, suddenly drinking off a large 
glass of brandy near him, he quitted the room, 
and, mounting his horse, rode off at full speed. 
Aim and object in view, he had none : he was on- 
ly trying to ride from himself ; trying to escape 
from those looks of horror and aversion which the 
remarks of Dunham had provoked. But what 
right had Dunham so to provoke him ? 



THE FATHER AND SON. 16S 

After be had put this question to himself, the 
image of Dunham, scornfully rejecting him his 
hand, alone took possession of his remembrance, 
till he thirsted for revenge ; and the irritation 
of the moment urged him to seek it immediately. 
The opportunity, as he rightly suspected, was 
in his power ; Dunham would soon be coming 

that way on his road to Y ; and he would 

meet him. He did so ; and, riding up to him, 
seized the bridle of his horse, exclaiming, " you 
have called me a murderer, Dunham; and you 
were right ; for, though I loved my mother dear- 
ly, and would have died for her, 1 killed her by 
my wicked course of life !" — " Well, well ; I 
know that" replied Dunham, " so let me go! for 
I tell you 1 do not like to be seen with such as 
jou. Let me go, I say ! 15 

He did let him go ; but it was as the tiger lets 
go its prey, to spring on it again. A blow from 
Edgar's nervous arm knocked the rash insnlter 
from his horse. In another minute Dunham lay on 
the road a bleeding corpse ; and the next morning 
officers were out in pursuit of the murderer. That 
wretched man was soon found, and soon secured. 
Indeed, he had not desired to avoid pursuit ; but, 
when the irritation of drunkenness and revenge 
had subsided, the agony of remorse took posses- 
sion of his soul ; and he confessed his crime with 
tears of bitterest penitence. To be brief : Edgar 
Vernon was carried into that city as a manacled 
criminal, which he had expected to leave as a suc- 
cessful gambler ; and, before the end of the as- 
sizes, he was condemned to death. 

He made a full confession of his guilt before 
the judge pronounced condemnation ; gave a 
brief statement of the provocation which he re- 
ceived from the deceased : blaming himself at the 



164 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

same time for his criminal revenge, in so heart- 
rending a manner, and lamenting so pathetically 
the disgrace and misery in which he had involv- 
ed his father and family, that every heart was 
melted to compassion ; and the judge wept, while 
he passed on him the awful sentence of the law. 
His conduct in prison was so exemplary, that it 
proved he had not forgotten his father's precepts, 
though he had not acted upon them ; and his 
brothers, for whom he sent, found him in a state 
of mind which afforded them the only and best 
consolation. This contrite lowly state of mind 
accompanied him to the awful end of his exist- 
ence ; and it might be justly said of him, that " no- 
thing in his life became him like the losing it." 

Painful, indeed, was the anxiety of Edgar and 
his brothers, lest their father should learn this hor- 
rible circumstance : but as the culprit was ar- 
raigned under a feigned name, and as the crime, 
trial and execution, had taken, and would take up, 
so short a period of time, they flattered themselves 
that he would never learn how and where Edgar 
died ; but would implicitly believe what was told 
him. They therefore wrote him word that Edgar 
had been taken ill at an inn, near London, on his 
road home ; that he had sent for them ; and they 
had little hopes of his recovery. They followed 
this letter of benevolent Lres as soon as they 
could, to inform him that all was over. 

This plan was wholly disapproved by a friend 
of the family, who, on principle, thought all con- 
cealment wrong ; and, probably, useless too. 

When the brothers drove to his house, on their 
way home, he said to them, " 1 found jour father 
in a state of deep submission to tbf divine will, 
though grieved at the loss of a child, whom not 
even his errors could drive from his affections. 



THE FATHER AND SON. 165 

I also found him consoled by those expressions of 
filial love and reliance on the merits of his Re- 
deemer, which you transmitted to him from Ed- 
gar himself. Now, as the poor youth died pens- 
tent and as his crime was palliated by great pro- 
vocation, 1 conceive that it would not add much to 
your father's distress, were he to be informed of 
the truth. You know that, from a principle of 
obedience to the implied designs of Providence, I 
object to any concealment on such occasions, but 
on this, disclosure would certainly be a safer, as 
well as a more proper, mode of proceeding ; for, 
though he does not read newspapers, he may one 
day learn the fact as it is ; and then the conse- 
quence may be fatal to life or reason. Remem- 
ber how ill concealment answered in your poor 
mother's case." But he argued in vain. How- 
ever, he obtained leave to go with them to their 
father, that he might judge of the possibility of 
making the disclosure which he advised. 

They found the poor old man leaning his head 
upon an open Bible, as though he had been pray- 
ing over it. The sight of his sons in mourning 
told the tale which he dreaded to hear ; and, 
wringing their hands in silence, he left the room, 
but soon returned ; and with surprising composure 
said, " Well ; now I can bear to hear particu- 
lars." When they had told him all they chose to 
relate, he exclaimed, melting into tears, u Enough ! 
— Oh, my dear sons and dear friend, it is a sad 
and grievous thing for a father to own ; but I 
feel this sorrow to be a blessing ! 1 had always 
feared that he would die a violent death, either 
by his own hand, or that of the executioner ; 
(here the sons looked triumphantly at each other;) 
therefore, his dying a penitent, and with humble 
christian reliance, is such a relief to my mind I 



166 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Yes ; I feared he might commit forgery, or even 
murder ; and that would have been dreadful !" 
— " Dreadful, indeed !" faltered out both the 
brothers, bursting into tears ; while Osborne, 
choked, and almost convinced, turned to the 
window. " Yet, 1 ' added he, " even in that case, 
if he had died penitent, I trust that 1 could have 
borne the blow, and been able to believe the soul 
of my unhappy boy would find mercy !" Here 
Osborne eagerly turned round, and would havd 
ventured to tell the truth ; but was withheld 
by the frowns of his companions, and the truth 
was not told. 

Edgar had not been dead above seven months, 
before a visible change took place in his father's 
spirits, and expression of countenance ; — for the 
constant dread of his child's coming to a terrible 
end had hitherto preyed on his mind, and ren- 
dered his appearance haggard; but now helook- 
ed, and was cheerful ; therefore his sons rejoiced, 
whenever they visited him, that they had not 
taken Osborne's advice. " You are wrong," said 
he, " he would have been just as well, if he had 
known the manner of Edgar's death. It is not 
his ignorance, but the cessation of anxious sus- 
pense, that has thus renovated him. However, 
he may go in his ignorance to his grave ; and 
I earnestly hope he will do so." — " Amen ;" 
said one of his sons ; " for his life is most precious 
to our children, as well as to us. Our little boys 
. are improving so fast under his tuition !" 

The consciousness of recovering health, as a 
painful affection of the breath and heart, had 
greatly subsided since the death of Edgar, made 
the good old man wish to visit, during the summer 
months, an old college friend, who lived in York- 
shire ; and he communicated his intentions to his 



THE FATHER AND SON. 167 

sons. But they highly disapproved them, be- 
cause, though Edgar's dreadful death was not 
likely to be revealed to him in the little village 

of R , it might be disclosed to him by some 

one or oiher during a long journey. 

However, as he was bent on going, they could 
not find a sufficient excuse for preventing it ; but 
they took every precaution possible. Thej wrote 
to their father's intended host, desiring him to 
keep all papers and magazines for the last seven 
months out of his way ; and when the day of his 
departure arrived, Osborne himself went to take 
a place for him ; and took care it should be in 
that coach which did not stop at, or go through 
York, in order to obviate all possible chance of his 
hearing the murder discussed. But it so happen- 
ed that a family, going from the town whence the 
coach started, wanted the whole of it ; and, with- 
out leave, Vernon's place was transferred to the 
other coach, which went the very road Osborne 
disapproved. " Well, well ; it is the same thing 
to me ;" said the good old man, when he was in- 
formed of the change ; and he set off. full of pious 
thankfulness for the affectionate conduct and re- 
grets of his parishioners at the moment of his de- 
parture, as they lined the road along which the 
coach was to pass, and expressed even clamorous- 
ly their wishes for his return. 

The coachstopped at an inn out-side the city of 
York ; and as Vernon was not disposed to eat 
any dinner, he strolled along the road, till he came 
to a small church, pleasantly situated, and entered 
the church-yard to read, as was his custom, the 
inscriptions on the tombstones. While thus en- 
gaged, he saw a man filling up a new-made grave, 
and entered into conversation with him. He 
found it was the sexton himself; and be drew 



168 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

from him several anecdotes of the persons interred 
around them. 

During this conversation they had walked over 
the whole of the ground, when, just as they were 
going to leave the spot, the sexton stopped to 
pluck some weeds from a grave near the corner 
of it, and Vernon stopped also ; taking hold, as he 
did so, of a small willow sapling, planted near the 
corner itself. 

As the man rose from his occupation, and saw 
where Vernon stood, he smiled significantly, and 
said, " I planted that willow; and it is on a grave, 
though the grave is not marked out." — " Indeed l" 
— " Yes ; it is the grave, of a murderer." — " Of a 
murderer !" — echoed Vernon, instinctively shud- 
dering and moving away from it. — " Yes," resum- 
ed he, " of a murderer who was hanged at York. 
Poor lad ! it was very right that he should be 
hanged ; but he was not a hardened villain ! and 
he died so penitent ! and, as I knew him when he 
used to visit where I was groom, f could not help 
planting this tree, for old acquaintance sake." 
Here he drew his hand across his eyes. " Then 
he was not a low-born man." — "Oh no; his fa- 
ther was a clergyman, 1 think." — " Indeed ! poor 
man : was he jiving at the time ?" said Vernon, 
deeply sighing. "Oh yes; for his poor son did 
so fret, lest his father should ever know what he 
had done ; for he said he was an angel upon 
earth ; and he could not bear to think how he 
would grieve ; for, poor lad, he loved his father 
and mother too, though he did so badly." — " Is 
his mother living ?" — " No ; if she had, he would 
have been alive ; but his evil courses broke her 
heart; and it was because the man he killed re- 
proached him for having murdered his mother, 
that he was provoked to murder him." — " Poor, 



THE FATHER AND SON. i69 

rash, mistaken youth ! then he had provocation." 
— " Oh yes ; the greatest : but he was very sorry 
for what he had done ; and it would have brok- 
en your heart to hear him talk of his poor fa- 
ther." — -" I am glad I did not hear him," said 
Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice (for he 
thought of Edgar.) " And yet, sir, it would have 
done your heart good too." — " Then he had vir* 
tuous feelings, and loved his father amidst all his 
errors ?" — " Aye." — " And I dare say his father 
loved him, in spite of his faults." — " I dare say 
he did," replied the man ; " for one's children 
are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after 
all that is said and done ; and may be this young 
fellow was spoiled in the bringing up." — " Per- 
haps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply. " How- 
ever, this poor lad made a very good end." — " I 
am glad of that ! and he lies here," continued 
Vernon, gazing on the spot with deepening inter- 
est, and moving nearer to it as he spoke. "Peace 
be to his soul ! but was he not dissected ?"— 
" Yes ; but his brothers got leave to have the body 
after dissection. They came to me ; and we 
buried it privately at night." — u His brothers 
came ! and who were his brothers ?" — " Mer- 
chants in London ; and it was a sad cut on them ; 
but they took care that their father should not 
know it." — " No !" cried Vernon, turning sick at 
heart. " Oh no ; they wrote him word that his 
son was ill ; then went to Westmoreland, and " 
. . . .— " Tell me," interrupted Vernon, gasp- 
ing for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, 
*' tell me the name of this poor youth !" — 
" Why, he was tried under a false name, for the 
sake of his family ; but his real name was Edgar 
Vernon ! ?1 
IS 



170 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

The agonized parent drew back, shuddered 
violently and repeatedly, casting his eyes to 
heaven at the same time, with a look of mingled 
appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the 
obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, 
threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over 
it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit be- 
neath, while his head rested on the grass, and he 
neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan; 
then all was stillness ! 

His terrified and astonished companion remain- 
ed motionless for a few moments, — then stooped 
to raise him ; but the fiat of mercy had gone 
forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sud- 
den shock, had suffered, and breathed its last. 



CHAPTER XL 



lies of wantonness. 



I come now to lies of wantonness ; that is, lies 
told from no other motive but a love of lying, 
and to show the utterer's total contempt of truth, 
and for those scrupulous persons of their acquain- 
tance who look on it with reverence, and endeav- 
our to act up to their principles : lies, having 
their origin merely in a depraved fondness for 
speaking and inventing falsehood. Not that per- 
sons of this description confine their falsehoods to 
this sort of lying : on the contrary, they lie after 
this fashion, because they have exhausted the 
strongly-motived and more natural sorts of ly- 
ing. Jn such as these, there is no more hope of 



PRACTICAL LIES. 171 

amendment than there is for the man of intem- 
perate habits, who has exhausted life of its pleas- 
ures, and his constitution of its energy. Such per- 
sons must go despised and (terrible state of hu* 
man degradation !) untrusted, unbelieved, into 
their graves. 

Practical lies come last on my list ; lies not 
«ttered, but acted ; and dress will furnish me 
with most of my illustrations. 

It has been said that the great art of dress is to 
conceal defects and heighten beauties ; there- 
fore, as concealment is deception, this great art 
of dress is founded on falsehood ; but, certainly, 
in some instances, on falsehood, comparatively, of 
an innocent kind. 

If the false hair be so worn, that no one can 
fancy it natural ; if the bloom on the cheekos 
such, that it cannot be mistaken for nature ; or, if 
the person who " conceals defects, and heightens 
beauties," openly avows the practice, then is the 
deception annihilated. But, if the cheek be so 
artfully tinted, that its hue is mistaken for natur- 
al colour; if the false hair be so skilfully woven, 
that it passes for natural hair ; if the crooked per- 
son, or meagre form, be so cunningly assisted by 
dress, that the uneven shoulder disappears, and 
becoming fulness succeeds to unbecoming thin- 
ness, while the man or woman thus assisted by art 
expects their charms will be imputed to nature 
alone ; then these aids of dress partake of the na- 
ture of other lying, and become equally vicious in 
the eyes of the religious and the moral. 

I have said, the man or woman so assisted by 
art ; and 1 believe that, by including the stronger 
sex in the above observation, I have only been 
strictly just. 

While men hide baldness by gluing a piece of 



172 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

false hair on their heads', meaning that it should 
pass for their own, and while a false calf gives 
muscular beauty to a shapeless leg, can the ob- 
server on human life do otherwise than include 
the wiser sex in the list of those who indulge in 
the permitted artifices and mysteries of the toilet ? 
Nay; bolder still are the advances of some men 
into its sacred mysteries. ] have seen the eye- 
brows, even of the young, darkened by the hand 
of art, and their cheeks reddened by its touch ; 
and who has not seen, in Bond Street, or the 
Drive, during the last twenty or thirty years, 
certain notorious men of fashion glowing in im- 
mortal bloom, and rivalling the dashing belle be- 
side them ? 

As the foregoing observations on the practical 
lies of dress, have been mistaken by many, and 
have exposed me to severe, (and I think I may 
add) unjust animadversions, I take the opportuni- 
ty afforded me by a second edition, to say a few 
words in explanation of them. 

I do not wish to censure any one for having re- 
course to art to hide the defects of nature ; and, I 
have expressly said, that such practices are com- 
paratively innocent: but, it seems to me, that they 
cease to be innocent, and become passive and 
practical lies also, if, when men and women hear 
the fineness of their complexion, hair, or teeth, 
commended in their presence, they do not own 
that the beauty so commended is entirely arti- 
ficial, provided such be really the case. But, 

I am far from advising any one to be guilty of 
the unnecessary egotism, of volunteering such an as- 
surance ; all I contend for is, that when we are- 
praised for qualities, whether of mind or person, 
which we do not possess, we are guilty of passive 



PRACTICAL LIES. 173 

if not of practical, lying, if we do not disclaim our 
right to the encomium bestowed. 

The following also are practical lies of every 
day's experience. 

Wearing paste for diamonds, intending that the 
false should be taken for the true; and purchasing 
brooches, pins, and rings of mock jewels, intend- 
ing that they should pass for real ones. Passing 
off goosberry-wine at dinner for real Cham- 
paigne, and English liqueurs for foreign ones. 
But, on these occasions, the motive is not always 
the mean and contemptible wish of imposing on 
the credulity of others ; but it has sometimes its 
source in a dangerous as w r ell as deceptive ambi- 
tion, that of making an appearance beyond what the 
circumstances of the persons so deceiving really war- 
rant ; the wish to be supposed to be more o-ulent 
than they really are ; that most common of all the 
practical lies ; as ruin and bankruptcy follow in its 
train. The lady who purchases and wears paste 
which she hopes will pass for diamonds, is usual- 
ly one who has no right to wear jewels at all; 
and the gentleman who passes off gooseberry- 
wine for Champaigne is, in all probability, 
aiming at a style of living beyond his situation in 
society. 

On some occasions, however, when ladies sub- 
stitute paste for diamonds, the substitution tells a 
tale of greater error still. 1 mean, when ladies 
wear mock for real jewels, because their extrava- 
gance has obliged them to raise money on the lat- 
ter ; and they are therefore constrained to keep 
up the appearance of their necessary and accus- 
tomed splendour, by a practical lie. 

The following is another of the practical lies in 
common use. 
15* 



174 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING, 

The medical man, who desires his servant to 
call him out of church, or from a party, in order 
to give him the appearance of the great business 
which he has not, is guilty not of uttering but of 
acting a falsehood ; and the author also, who 
makes his publisher put second and third editions 
before a work of which, perhaps, not even the first 
edition is sold. 

But, the most fatal to the interests of others, 
though perhaps the most pitiable of practical lies, 
are those acted by men who, though they know 
themselves to be in the gulf of bankruptcy, either 
from wishing to put off the evil day, or from the 
visionary hope that something will occur unex- 
pectedly to save them, launch out into increased 
splendour of living, in order to obtain further 
credit, and induce their acquaintances to intrust 
their money to them. 

There is, however, one practical lie more fa- 
tal still, in my opinion ; because it is the practice 
of schools, and consequently the sin of early life ; 
— a period of existence in which it is desirable, 
both for general and individual good, that habits 
of truth and integrity should be acquired, and 
strictly adhered to. I mean the pernicious cus- 
tom which prevails amongst boys, and probably 
girls, of getting their schoolfellows to do their ex- 
ercises for them, or consenting to do the same of- 
fice for others. 

Some will say, " but it would be so ill natured 
to refuse to write one's schoolfellows' exercises, 
especially when one is convinced that they can- 
not write them for themselves." But, leaving the 
question of truth and falsehood unargued a while, 
let us examine coolly that of the probable good or 
evil done to the parties obliged. 

What are children sent to school for ? — to learn. 



PRACTICAL LIES. 175 

And when there, what are the motives which are 
to make them learn ? dread of punishment, and 
hope of distinction and reward. There are few 
children so stupid, as not to be led on to industry 
by one or both of these motives, however indolent 
they may be ; but, if these motives be not allow- 
ed their proper scope of action, the stupid boy will 
never take the trouble to learn, if he finds that he 
can avoid punishment, and gain reward, by pre- 
vailing on some more diligent boy to do his ex* 
ercises for him. Those, therefore, who indulge 
their schoolfellows, do it at the expense of their 
future welfare, and are in reality foes where they 
fancied themselves friends. But, generally speak- 
ing, they have not even this excuse for their per- 
nicious compliance, since it springs from want of 
sufficient firmness to say no, — and deny an earn- 
est request at the command of principle. But, to 
such I would put this question. " Which is the 
real friend to a child, the person who gives it the 
sweetmeats which it asks for, at the risk of making 
it ill, merely because it were so hard to refuse the 
dear little thing ; or the person who, considering 
only the interest and health of the child, resists 
its importunities, though grieved to deny its re- 
quest? No doubt that they would give the palm 
of real kindness, real good-nature to the latter ; 
and in like manner, the boy who refuses to do his 
schoolfellow's task is more truly kind, more truly 
good-natured, to him than he who, by indulging 
his indolence, runs the risk of making him a dunce 
for life. 

But some may reply, " It would make one 
odious in the school, were one to refuse this com- 
mon compliance with the wants and wishes of 
one's companions-" — Not if the refusal were de- 
clared to be the result of principle, and every aid 



176 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

not contrary to it were offered and afforded ; and 
there are many ways in which schoolfellows may 
assist each other, without any violation of truth, 
and witnout sharing with them in the practical 
lie, by imposing on their masters, as theirs, lessons 
which they never wrote. 

This common practice in schools is a practical 
lie of considerable importance, from its frequen- 
cy ; and because, as I before observed, the result 
of it is, that the first step which a child sets in a 
school is into the midst of deceit — tolerated, cher- 
ished, deceit. For, if children are quick at learn- 
ing, they are called upon immediately to enable 
others to deceive ; and, if dull, they are enabled' 
to appear in borrowed plumes themselves. 

How often have I heard men in mature life say, 
"Oh ! I knew such a one at school ; he was a 
very good fellow, but so dull ! 1 have often done 
his exercises for him." Or, 1 have heard the con- 
trary asserted " Such a one was a very clever 
boy at school indeed ; he has done many an ex- 
ercise for me ; for he was very good-natured." 
And in neither case was the speaker conscious 
that he had been guilty of the meanness of decep- 
tion himself, or been accessary to it in another. 

Parents also correct their children's exercises, 
and thereby enable them to put a deceit on the 
master ; not only by this means convincing their 
offspring of their own total disregard of truth ; a 
conviction doubtless most pernicious in its effects 
on their young minds ; but as full of folly as it is 
of laxity of principle; since the deceit cannot fail 
of being detected, whenever the parents are not 
at hand to afford their assistance. 

But, is it necessary that this school delinquency 
should exist ? Is it not advisable that children 
should learn the rudiments of truth, rather than 



PRACTICAL LIES. 



i'7* 



falsehood, with those of their mother tongue and 
the classics ? Surely masters and mistresses 
should watch over the morals, while improving 
the minds of youth. Surely parents ought to be 
tremblingly solicitous that their children should 
always speak truth, and be corrected by their 
preceptors for uttering falsehood. Yet, of what 
use could it be to correct a child for telling a spon- 
taneous lie, on the impulse of strong temptation, 
if that child be in the daily habit of deceiving his 
master on system, and of assisting others to do so? 
While the present practice with regard to exer- 
cise-making exists ; while boys and girls go up to 
iheir preceptors with lies in their hands, whence, 
sometimes, no doubt, they are transferred to their 
lips ; every hope that truth will be taught in 
schools, as a necessary moral duty, must be total- 
ly, and for ever, annihilated. 



CHAPTER XII. 

OUR OWN EXPERIENCE OF THE PAINFUL RESULTS 
OF LYING. 

1 cannot point out the mischievous nature and 
impolicy of lying better than by referring my 
readers to their own experience. Which of them 
does not know some few persons, at least, from 
whose habitual disregard of truth they have often 
suffered ; and with whom they find intimacy un- 
pleasant, as well as unsafe ; because confidence, 
that charm and cement of intimacy, is wholly- 
wanting in the intercourse? Which of my read- 



178 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN«. 

ers is not sometimes obliged to say, " I ought to 
add, that my authority for what I have just re- 
lated, is only Mr. and Mrs. such-a-one, or a cer- 
tain young lady, or a certain young gentleman ; 
therefore, you know what credit is to be given 
to it." 

It has been asserted, that every town and vil- 
lage has its idiot ; and, with equal truth, prob- 
ably, it may be advanced, that every one's cir- 
cle of acquaintances contains one or more persons 
known to be habitual liars, and always mentioned 
as such. I may be asked, " if this be so, of 
what consequence is it ? And how is it mis- 
chievous ? If such persons are known and chron- 
icled as liars, they can deceive no one, and, there- 
fore, can do no harm." But this is not true : we 
are not always on our guard, either against our 
own weakness, or against that of others ; and if 
the most notorious liar tells us something which 
we wish to believe, our wise resolution never to 
credit or repeat what he has told us, fades before 
our desire to confide in him on this occasion. 
Thus, even in spite of caution, we become the 
agents of his falsehood ; and, though lovers of 
truth, are the assistants of lying. 

Nor are there many of my readers. I venture to 
pronounce, who have not at some time or other of 
their lives, had cause to lament some violation of 
truth, of which they themselves were guilty, and 
which, at the time, they considered as wise, or pos- 
itively unavoidable. 

But the greatest proof of the impolicy even of 
occasional lying is, that it exposes one to the dan* 
ger of never being believed in future. It is dif- 
ficult to give implicit credence to those who have 
once deceived us ; when they did so deceive, 
they were governed by a motive sufficiently pow- 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 1 79 

erful to overcome their regard for truth ; and 
how can one ever be sure, that equal temptation 
is not always present, and always overcoming 
them ? 

Admitting, that perpetual distrust attends on 
those who are known to be frequent violaters of 
truth, it seems to me that the liar is, as if he was 
not. He is, as it were, annihilated for all the im- 
portant purposes of life. That man or woman is 
no better than a nonentity, whose simple asser- 
tion is not credited immediately. Those whose 
words no one dares to repeat, without naming the 
authority, lest the information conveyed by them 
should be too implicitly credited, such persons, I 
repeat it, exist, as if they existed not. They re- 
semble that diseased eye, which, though perfect 
in colour, and appearance, is wholly useless, be- 
cause it cannot perform the function for which it 
was created, that of seeing ; for, of what use to 
others, and of what benefit to themselves, can 
those be whose tongues are always suspected of 
uttering falsehood, and whose words, instead of in- 
spiring confidence, that soul and cement of society, 
and of mutual regard, are received with offensive 
distrust, and never repeated without caution and 
apology ? 

I shall now endeavour to show, that speaking 
the truth does not imply a necessity to wound the 
feelings of any one; but that, even if the unrestrict- 
ed practice of truth in society did at first give pain 
to self-love, it would, in the end, further the best 
views of benevolence ; namely, moral improvement. 
There cannot be any reason why offensive or 
home truths should be volunteered, because one lays 
it down as a principle that truth must be spoken, 
when called for. If I put a question to another 
which may, if truly answered, wound either my 



180 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

sensibility or my self-love, I should be rightly 
served if replied to by a home truth; but, taking 
conversation according to its general tenor — that 
is, under the usual restraints of decorum and pro- 
priety — truth and benevolence will, I believe, be 
found to go hand in hand ; and not, as is common- 
ly imagined, be opposed to each other. For in- 
stance, if a person in company be old, plain, af- 
fected, vulgar in manners, or dressed in a man- 
ner unbecoming their years, my utmost love of 
truth would never lead me to say, " how old you 
look ! or how plain you are ! or how improperly 
dressed ! or how vulgar ! and how affected !" But, 
if this person were to say to me, "_do I not look 
old ? am I not plain? am I not improperly dress- 
ed ? am I vulgar in manners ?" and so on, I own 
that,according to my principles, 1 must, in my reply, 
adhere to the strict truth, after having vainly tried 
to avoid answering, by a serious expostulation on 
the folly, impropriety, and indelicacy of putting 
such a question to any one. And what would the 
consequence be? The person so answered, would 
probably, never like me again. Still, by my re- 
ply, I might have been of the greatest service to 
the indiscreet questioner. If ugly, the inquirer 
being convinced that not on outward charms could 
he or she build their pretensions to please, might 
study to improve in the more permanent graces of 
mind and manner. If growing old, the inquirer 
might be led by my reply to reflect seriously on 
the brevity of life, and try to grow in grace while 
advancing in years. If ill-dressed, or in a man- 
ner unbecoming a certain time of life, the inquirer 
might be led to improve in this particular, and be 
no longer exposed to the sneer of detraction. If 
vulgar, the inquirer might be induced to keep a 
watch in future over the admitted vulgarity ; and, 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING* 181 

it affected, might endeavour at greater simplicity, 
and less pretension in appearance. 

Thus, the temporary wound to the self-love of 
the enquirer might be attended with lasting bene- 
fit ; and benevolence in reality be not wounded, 
but gratified. Besides, as 1 have before observed, 
the truly benevolent can always find a balm for 
the wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

Few persons are so entirely devoid of external 
and internal charms, as not to be subjects for 
some kind of commendation ; therefore, 1 believe, 
that means may always be found to smooth down 
the plumes of that self-love which principle has 
obliged us to ruffle. But, if it were to become a 
general principle of action in society to utter spon- 
taneous truth, the difficult situation in which 1 have 
painted the utterers of truth to be placed, would, 
in time, be impossible ; for, if certain that the 
truth would be spoken, and their suspicions con- 
cerning their defects confirmed, none would dare 
to put such questions as I have enumerated- Those 
questions sprung from the hope of being contra- 
dicted and flattered, and were that hope annihilat- 
ed, no one would ever so question again. 

1 shall observe here, that those who make mor- 
tifying observations on the personal defects of 
their friends, or on any infirmity either of body or 
mind, are not actuated by the love of truth, or by 
any good motive whatever; but that such un- 
pleasant sincerity is merely the result of coarse- 
ness of mind, and a mean desire to inflict pain and 
mortification ; therefore, if the utterer of them be 
noble, or even royal, I should still bring a charge 
against them, terrible to " ears polite," that of ill- 
breeding and positive vulgarity. 

All human beings are convinced in the closet of 
16 



182 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the importance of truth to the interests of society, 
and of the mischief which they experience from 
lying, though few, comparatively, think the prac- 
tice of the one, and avoidance of the other, bind- 
ing either on the christian or (he moralist, when 
they are acting in the busy scenes of the world. 
Nor, can I wonder at this inconsistency, when boys 
and girls, as I have before remarked, however 
they may be taught to speak the truth at home, 
are so often tempted into the tolerated commission 
of falsehood as soon as they set their foot into a 
public school. 

But we must wonder still less at the little shame 
which attaches to what is called white lying, 
when we see it sanctioned in the highest assem- 
blies in this kingdom. 

It is with fear and humility that I venture to 
blame a custom prevalent in our legislative meet- 
ings ; which, as Christianity is declared to be 
" part and parcel of the law of the land," ought 
to be christian as well as wise; and where every 
member, feeling it binding on him individually to 
act according to the legal oath, should speak the 
truth, and nothing but the truth. Yet, what is the 
real state of things there on some occasions ? 

In the heat, (the pardonable heat, perhaps,) 
of political debates, and from the excitement pro- 
duced by collision of wits, a noble lord, or an 
honourable commoner, is betrayed into severe 
personal comment on his antagonist. The un- 
avoidable consequence, as it is thought, is apology, 
or duel. 

But as these assemblies are called christian, even 
the warriors present deem apology a more proper 
proceeding than duel. Yet, how is apology to be 
made consistent with the dignity and dictates of 
worldly honour ? And how can the necessity of 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING. 183 

duel, that savage heathenish disgrace to a civiliz- 
ed and christian land, be at once obviated ? Oh ! 
the method is easy enough. " Jt is as easy as ly- 
ing," and lying is the remedy. A noble lord, or 
an honourable member gets up, and says, that un- 
doubtedly his noble or honourable friend used 
such and such words ; but, no doubt, that by those 
words he did not mean what those words usually 
mean ; but he meant so and so. Some one on the 
other side immediately rises on behalf of the of- 
fended, and says, that if the offender will say that 
by so and so, he did not mean so and so, the of 
fended will be perfectly satisfied. On which the 
offender rises, declares that by black he did not 
mean black, but white ; in short, that black is 
white, and white black ; the offended says, enough ; 
— I am satisfied ! the honourable house is satisfied 
also that life is put out of peril, and what is called 
honour is satisfied by the sacrifice only of truth. 

I must beg leave to state, that no one can re- 
joice more fervently than myself when these dis- 
putes terminate without duels ; but must there be 
a victim ? and must that victim be truth ? As 
there is no intention to deceive on these occasions, 
nor wish, nor expectation to do so, the soul, the 
essence of lying, is not in the transaction on the 
side of the offender. But the offended is forced to 
say that he is satisfied, when he certainly can not 
be so. He knows that the offender meant, at the 
moment, what he said ; therefore, he is not satis- 
fied when he is told, in order to return his half- 
drawn sword to the scabbard, or his pistol to the 
holster, that black means white, and white means 
black. 

However, he has his resource ; he may ulti- 
mately tell the truth, declare himself, when out of 
the.house, unsatisfied ; and may (horrible alterna* 



184 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

tive !) peril his life, or that of his opponent. But 
is there no other course which can be pursued by 
him who gave the offence ? Must apology to 
satisfy be made in the language of falsehood ? 
Could it not be made in the touching and impres- 
sive language of truth ? Might not the perhaps 
already penitent offender say "no; I will not be 
guilty of the meanness of subterfuge. By the 
words which 1 uttered, 1 meant at the moment 
what those words conveyed, and nothing else. 
But I then saw through the medium of passion ; 
I spoke in the heat cf resentment; and I now 
scruple not to say that I am sorry for what I said, 
and entreat the pardon of him whom I offended. 
If he be not satisfied, 1 know the consequences, 
and must take the responsibility." 

Surely an apology like this would satisfy any 
one, however offended ; and if the adversary were 
not contented, the noble or honourable house 
would undoubtedly deem his resentment brutal, 
and he would be constrained to pardon the offen- 
der in order to avoid disgrace. 

But I am not contented with the conclusion of 
the apology which I have put into the mouth of 
the offending party ; for 1 have made him willing, 
if necessary, to comply with the requirings of 
worldly honour. Instead of ending his apology in 
that unholy manner, 1 should have wished to end 
it thus : — " But if this heart-felt apology be not suf- 
ficient to appease the anger of him whom I have 
offended, and he expects me, in order to expiate 
my fault, to meet him in the lawless warfare of 
single combat, I solemnly declare that I will not 
so meet him ; that not even the dread of being 
accused of cowardice, and being frowned on by 
those whose respect I value, shall induce me to put 
in peril either his life or my own." 



PAINFUL RESULTS OF LYING* 185 

If he and his opponent be married men, and, 
above all, if he be indeed a christian, he might add, 
" I will not, for any personal considerations, run 
the risk of making his wife and mine a widow, 
and his children and my own fatherless. 1 will 
not run the risk of disappointing that confiding ten- 
derness which looks up to us for happiness and 
protection, by any rash and selfish action of mine. 
But, J am not actuated to this refusal by this con- 
sideration alone ; I am withheld by one more 
binding and more powerful still. Fori remember 
the precepts taught in the Bible, and confirmed in 
the New Testament ; and i cannot, will not, dare 
not, enter into single and deadly combat, in op- 
position to that awful command, ' thou shalt not 
kill !' " 

Would any one, however narrow and worldly in 
his conceptions, venture to condemn as a coward, 
meanly shrinking from the responsibility he had 
incurred, the man that could dare to put forth sen- 
timents dike these, regardless of that fearful thing, 
" the world's dread laugh V 

There might be some among his hearers by 
whom this truly noble daring could not possibly 
be appreciated. But, though in both houses of 
parliament, there might be heroes present, whose 
heads are even bowed down by the weight of 
their laurels ; men whose courage has often paled 
the cheek of their enemies in battle, and brought 
the loftiest low ; still, (I must venture to assert) 
he who can dare, for the sake of conscience, to 
speak and act counter to the prejudices and pas- 
sions of the world, at the risk of losing his stand- 
ing in society, such a man is a hero in the best 
sense of the word ; his is courage of the most 
difficult kind ; that moral courage, founded in- 
16* 



186 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 

deed on fear, but a fear that tramples firmly 
on every fear of man ; for it is that holy fear, 

the FEAR OF GOD. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

LYING THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 

I have observed in the preceding chapter, and 
elsewhere, that all persons, in theory, consider ly- 
ing as a most odious, mean, and pernicious prac- 
tice. It is also one which is more than almost any 
other reproved, if not punished, both in servants 
and children ; — for parents, those excepted, whose 
moral sense has been rendered utterly callous, or 
who never possessed any, mourn over the slightest 
deviation from truth in their offspring, and visit it 
with instant punishment. Who has not frequently 
heard masters and mistresses of families declaring 
that some of their servants were such liars that 
they could keep them no longer ? Yet, trying and 
painful as intercourse with liars is universally al- 
lowed to be, since confidence, that necessary 
guardian of domestic peace, cannot exist where 
they are ; lying is undoubtedly, the most common 
of all vices. A friend of mine was once told by 
a confessor, that it was the one most frequently 
confessed to him ; and I am sure that if we enter 
society with eyes open to detect this propensity, 
we shall soon be convinced, that there are few, if 
any, of our acquaintance, however distinguished 
for virtue, who are not, on some occasions, led by 
good and sufficient motives, in their own opinion 



THE MOST COMMON OF ALL VICES. 1 &? 

at least, either to violate or withhold the truth 
with intent to deceive. Nor do their most con- 
scious or even detected deviations from veracity 
fill the generality of the world with shame or 
compunction. Sf they commit any other sins, 
they shrink from avowing them : but 1 have often 
heard persons confess, that they had, on certain 
occasions, uttered a direct falsehood, with an air 
which proved them to be proud of their deceptive 
skill with which it was uttered, adding, " but it 
was only a white lie. you know," with a degree 
of sell-complacency which showed that, in their 
eyes, a white lie was no lie at all. And what is 
more common than to hear even the professedly 
pious, as well as the moral, assert that a deviation 
from truth, or, at least, withholding the truth, so 
as to deceive, is sometimes absolutely necessary ? 
Yet, 1 would seriously ask of those who thus ar- 
gue, whether, when they repeat the command- 
ment " thou shalt not steal," they feel willing to 
admit, either in themselves or others, a mental re- 
servation, allowing them to pilfer in any degree, or 
even in the slightest particular, make free with the 
property of another ? Would they think that 
pilfering tea or sugar was a venial fault in a ser- 
vant, and excusable under strong temptations ? 
They would answer " no ;" and be ready to say 
in the words of the apostle, " whosoever in this 
respect shall offend in one point, he is guilty of 
all." Yet, I venture to assert, that little lying, 
alias white lying, is as much an infringement of the 
moral law against " speaking leasing," as little 
pilfering is of the commandment not to steal ; and 
I defy any consistent moralist to escape from the 
obligation of the principle which I here lay down. 
The economical rule, ',' take care of the pence, 
and the pounds will take care of themselves," 



188 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

may, with great benefit, be applied to morals. 
Few persons comparatively, are exposed to the 
danger of committing great crimes, but all are daily 
and hourly tempted to commit little sins. Beware 
therefore, of slight deviations from purity and rec- 
titude, and great ones will take care of themselves ; 
and the habit cf resistance to trivial sins will make 
you able to resist temptation to errors of a more 
culpable nature ; and as those persons will not be 
likely to exceed improperly in pounds, who are 
laudably saving in pence, and as little lies are to 
great ones, what pence are to pounds, if we acquire 
a habit of telling truth on trivial occasions, we 
shall never be induced to violate it on serious and 
important ones. 

I shall now borrow the aid of others to strength- 
en what 1 have already said on this important sub- 
ject, or have still to say ; as I am painfully con- 
scious of my own inability to do justice to it ; and 
if the good which I desire be but effected, I am 
willing to resign to others the merit of the success. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

EXTRACTS FROM LORD BACON, AND OTHERS. 

In a gallery of moral philosophers, the rank of 
Bacon, in my opinion, resembles that of Titian in 
a gallery of pictures ; and some of his successors 
not only look up to him as authority for certain 
excellences, but, making him, in a measure, their 
study ; they endeavour to diffuse over their own 
productions the beauty of his conceptions, and 



EXTRACTS. 18$ 

the depth and breadth of his manner. I am there- 
fore, sorry that those passages in his Essay on 
Truth which bear upon the subject before me, are 
so unsatisfactorily brief; — however, as even a 
sketch from the hand of a master is valuable, 1 give 
the following extracts from the essay in question. 

" But to pass from theological and philosophical 
truth — to truth, or rather veracity, in civil busi- 
ness, it will be acknowledged, even by those that 
practise it not, that clear and sound dealing is the 
honour of man's nature, and that mixture of false- 
hood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver, 
which may make the metal work the better, but 
it embaseth it. For these winding and crooked 
courses are the goings of the serpent, which goeth 
basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. 
There is no vice that does so overwhelm a man 
with shame, as to be found false or perfidious : 
and therefore Montaigne saith very acutely, when 
he inquired the reason, why the giving the lie 
should be such a disgraceful and odious charge, 
" If it be well weighed," said he, " to say that a 
man lies, is as much as to say, he is a bravado to- 
wards God, and a coward towards man. For the 
liar insults God and crouches to man." Essay 
on Truth. 

I hoped to have derived considerable assistance 
from Addison ; as he ranks so very high in the 
list of moral writers, that Dr. Watts said of his 
greatest work, " there is so much virtue in the 
eight volumes of the Spectator, such a reverence 
of things sacred, so many valuable remarks for 
our conduct in life, that they are not improper to 
lie in parlours, or summer-houses, to entertain 
one's thoughts in any moments of leisure." But, 
in spite of his fame as a moralist, and of this high 
eulogium from one of the best authorities, Addison 



190 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

appears to have done very little as an advocate 
for spontaneous truth, and an assailant of spon- 
taneous lying; and has been much less zealous and 
effective than either Hawkesworth or Johnson, 
However, what he has said, is well said ; and I 
have pleasure in giving it. 

" The great violation of the point of honour 
from man to man is, giving the lie. One may tell 
another that he drinks and blasphemes, and it may 
pass unnoticed ; but to say he lies, though but in 
ject, is an affront that nothing but blood can ex- 
piate. The reason perhaps may be, because no 
other vice implies a want of courage so much as 
the making of a lie ; and, therefore, telling a man 
he lies, is touching him in the most sensible part 
of honour, and, indirectly, calling him a coward. 
I cannot omit, under this head, what Herodotus 
tells us of the ancient Persians ; that, from the 
age of five years to twenty, they instruct their 
sons only in three things ; — to manage the horse, 
to make use of the bow, and to speak the truth" — 
Spectator, Letter 99. 

I know not whence Addison took the extract, 
from which I give the following quotation, but I 
refer my readers to No. 352 of the Spectator. 

" Truth is always consistent with itself, and 
needs nothing to help it out : it is always near at 
hand, and sits upon our lips, and is ready to drop 
out, before we are aware : whereas a lie is 
troublesome, and sets a man's invention upon the 
rack; and one break wants a great many more 
to make it good. It is like building on a false 
foundation, which continually stands in need of 
props to keep it up, and proves at last more 
chargeable than to have raised a substantial build- 
ing at first upon a true and solid foundation : for 
sincerity is firm and substantial, and there is no- 



EXTRACTS. 191 

thing hollow and unsound in it ; and, because it is 
plain and open, fears no discovery, of which the 
crafty man is always in danger. All his preterm 
ces are so transparent, that he that runs may read 
them ; he is the last man that finds himself to be 
found out ; and while he takes it for granted that 
he makes fools of others, he renders himself ridic- 
ulous. Add to all this, that sincerity is the most 
compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument 
for the speedy despatch of business. It creates 
confidence in those we have to deal with, saves 
the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to 
an issue in a few words. It is like travelling in a 
plain beaten road, which commonly brings a man 
soonerto his journey's end than by-ways, in which 
men often lose themselves. In a word, whatsoever 
convenience may be thought to be in falsehood 
and dissimulation, it is soon over ; but the incon- 
venience of it is perpetual, because it brings a 
man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, 
so that he is not believed when he speaks 
truth, nor trusted perhaps when he means honest- 
ly. When a man has once forfeited the reputa- 
tion of his integrity, he is set fast, and nothing will 
serve his turn ; neither truth nor falsehood." 

Dr. Hawkesworth, in the u Adventurer," makes 
lying the subject of a whole number ; and begins 
thus : — " When Aristotle was once asked what a 
man could gain by uttering falsehoods," he re- 
plied, " not to be credited when he shall speak 
the truth." ; ' The character of a liar is at once 
so hateful and contemptible, that even of those 
who have lost their virtue it might be expected 
that, from the violation of truth, they should be 
restrained by their pride :" and again, u almost 
every other vice that disgraces human nature may 
be kept in countenance by applause and associa- 
tion. ...... The liar, and only the liar, is 



192 Illustrations of lying. 

invariably and universally despised, abandoned,, 
and disowned. It is natural to expect that a crime 
thus generally detested should be generally avoid- 
ed, &c. Yet, so it is, that in defiance of censure 
and contempt, truth is frequently violated ; and 
scarcely the most vigilant and unremitted circum» 
spection wilt secure him that mixes with mankind 
from being hourly deceived by men of whom it 
can scarcely be imagined that they mean any in- 
jury to him, or profit to themselves." He then 
enters into a copious discussion of the lie of vanity, 
which he calls the most common of lies, and not 
the least mischievous ; but I shall content myself 
with only one extract from the conclusion of this 
paper. " There is, I think, an ancient law in 
Scotland, by which leasing making was capitally 
punished. 1 am, indeed, far from designing to in- 
crease in this country the number of executions ; 
yet, I cannot but think that they who destroy the 
confidence of society, weaken the credit of intelli- 
gence, and interrupt the security of life, might 
very properly be awakened to a sense of their 
crimes by denunciations of a whipping-post or pil- 
lory ; since many are so insensible of right and 
wrong, that they have no standard of action but 
the law, nor feel guilt but as they dread punish- 
ment." 

In No. 54 of the same work, Dr. Hawkesworth 
says, " that these men, who consider the imputa- 
tion of some vices as a compliment, would resent 
that of a lie as an insult, for which life only could 
atone. Lying, however,'" he adds, u does not in* 
cur more infamy than it deserves, though other 
vices incur less. But," continues he, " there is 
equal turpitude, and yet greater meanness, in those 
forms of speech which deceive without direct false- 
hood. The crime is committed with greater de- 



EXTRACTS. 193 

liberation, as it requires more contrivance ; and 
by the offenders the use of language is totally per- 
verted. They conceal a meaning opposite to that 
which they express ; their speech is a kind of rid- 
dle propounded for an evil purpose. 

" Indirect lies more effectually than others de- 
stroy that mutual confidence which is said to be 
the band of society. They are more frequently 
repeated, because they are not prevented by the 
dread of detection. Is it not astonishing that a 
practice so universally infamous should not be 
more generally avoided ? To . think, is to re- 
nounce it ; and, that I may fix the attention of my 
readers a little longer upon the subject, I shall re- 
late a story which, perhaps, by those who have 
much sensibility, will not soon be forgotten." 

He then proceeds to relate a story which is, I 
think, more full of moral teaching than any one I 
ever read on the subject ; and so superior to the 
preceding ones written by myself that I am glad 
there is no necessity for me to bring them in imme- 
diate competition with it ; — and that all 1 need do, 
is to give the moral of that story. Dr. Hawkes- 
worth calls the tale " the Fatal Effects of False 
Apologies and Pretences ;" but ;i the fatal effects 
of white lying^ would have been a juster title ; 
and perhaps, rny readers will be of the same opin- 
ion, when I have given an extract from it. f shall 
preface the extract by saying that, by a series of 
white lies, well-intentioned, but, like all lies, mis- 
chievous in their result, either to the purity of the 
moral feeling, or to the interests of those who 
utter them, jealousy was aroused in the husband 
of one of the heroines, and duel and death were 
the consequences. The following letter, writ- 
ten by the too successful combatant to his wife, 
17 



194 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYIN6. 

will sufficiently explain all that is necessary for 
my purpose. 

" My dear Charlotte, 1 am the most wretched 
of all men ; but 1 do not upbraid you as the 
cause. Would that I were not more guilty than 
you ! We are the martyrs of dissimulation. But 
your dissimulation and falsehood were the effects 
of mine. By the success of a He, put into the mouth 
of a chairman, I was prevented reading a letter 
which would at last have undeceived me ; and, by 
persisting in dissimulation, the Captain has made his 
friend a fugitive, and his wife a widow. Thus 
does insincerity terminate in misery and confusion, 
whether in its immediate purpose it succeeds, or is 
disappointed. If we ever meet again (to meet 
again in peace is impossible, but, if we ever meet 
again,) let us resolve to be sincere ; to be sincere 
is to be wise, innocent, and safe. We venture to 
commit faults, which shame or fear would prevent, 
if we did not hope to conceal them by a lie. But, 
in the labyrin'h of falsehood, men meet those evils 
which they seek to avoid ; and, as in the straight 
path of truth alone they can see before them, in 
the straight path of truth alone they can pursue 
felicity with success. Adieu! lam ... . dread- 
ful ! .... 1 can subscribe nothing that does not 
reproach and torment me." 

Within a few weeks after the receipt of this let- 
ter, the unhappy lady heard that her husband was 
cast away, in his passage to France. 

I shall next bring forward a greater champion 
of truth than the author of the Adventurer ; and 
put her cause into the hands of the mighty author 
of the Rambler. Boswell, in his Life of Dr John- 
son, says thus : — 

" He would not allow his servant to say he 
was not at home when he really was." " A ser 



EXTRACTS. 195 

vanfs strict regard for truth," said he, " must be 
weakened by the practice. A philosopher may 
know that it is merely a form of denial ; but few 
servants are such nice distinguishers. If I accus- 
tom a servant to tell a lie for me, have I not 
reason to apprehend that he will tell many lies 
for himself £"* 

u The importance of strict and scrupulous ve- 
racity," saj^s Boswell, vol. ii, pp. 454-55, " can- 
not be too often inculcated. Johnson was known 
to be so rigidly attentive to it, that, even in his 
common conversation, the slightest circumstance 
was mentioned with exact precision. The knowl- 
edge of his having such a principle and habit 



* Boswell adds, in his own person, " I am however satisfied 
that every servant of any degree of intelligence, understands 
saying, his master is not at home, not at all as the affirroatioa 
of a fact, but as customary words, intimating that his master 
wishes not to be seen ; so that there can be no bad effect from 
it." So says the man of the world ; and so say almost all the 
men of the world, and women too. But, even they will admit 
that the opinion of Johnson is of more weight, on a question of 
morals, than that of Boswell ; and I beg leave to add that of an- 
other powerful-minded and pious man. Scott, the editor of the 
Bible, says, in a note to the fourth chapter of Judges, " A very 
criminal deviation from simplicity and godliness is become cus- 
tomary amongst professed Christians. I mean the instructing 
and requiring servants to prevaricate (to word it no more harsh- 
ly,) in order that their masters may be preserved from the in- 
convenience of unwelcome visitants. And it should be consider- 
ed whether they who require their servants to disregard the 
truth, for their pleasure, will not teach them an evil lesson, and 
habituate them to use falsehood for their own pleasure' also." 
When I first wrote on this subject, I was not aware that writers 
of such eminence as those from whom I now quote had written 
respecting this Lie of Convenience ; but it is most gratifying to 
me to find the truth of my humble opinion confirmed by such 
men as Johnson, Scott, and Chalmers. 

I know not who wrote a very amusing and humourous book, 
called "Thinks I to myself;" but this subject is admirably 
treated there, and with effective ridicule, as, indeed, is worldly 
insincerity in general, 



196 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

made his friends have a perfect reliance os 
the truth of every thing that he told, however 
it might have been doubted, if told by others, 

u What a bribe and a reward does this anecdote 
hold out to us to be accurate in relation ! for, of 
all privileges, that of being considered as a person 
on whose yera< ity and accuracy every one can 
implicitly rely, is perhaps the most valuable to a 
social being." Vol, iii, />. 450. 

u Next morning while we were at breakfast," 
observes the amusing biographer, ik Johnson gave 
a very earnest recommendation of what he him- 
self practised with the utmost conscientious- 
ness ;" I mean, a strict regard to truth, even in 
the most minute particulars. fcC Accustom your 
children," said he, ul constantly to this. If a 
thing happened at one window, and they, when 
relating it, say, that it happened at another, do not 
let it pass ; but instantly check them ; you don't 
know where deviation from truth will end. Our 
lively hostess, whose fancy was impatient of the 
rein, ridgetted at this, and ventured to say, i this 
is too much. If Mr. Johnson should forbid me to 
drink tea, I would comply ; as 1 should feel the 
restraint only twice a-day ; but little variations in 
narrative must happen a thousand times a-day, if 
one is not perpetually watching • — Johnson, 
" Well, madam ; and you ought to be perpetually 
watching. It is more from carelessness about truth, 
than from intentional lying, that there is so much 
falsehood in the world.' " 

" Johnson inculcated upon all his friends the 
importance of perpetual vigilance against the 
slightest degree of falsehood ; the effect of which, 
as Sir Joshua Reynolds observed to me, has been 
that all who were of his school are distinguished 
for a love of truth and accuracy, which they would 



EXTRACTS. 197 

not have possessed in the same degree, if they 
had not been acquainted with Johnson.* 

" We talked of the casuistical question," says 
Boswell, vol, iv, 334, " whether it was allowable 
at any time to depart from truth." — Johnson. 
" The general rule is, that truth should never be 
violated ; because it is of the utmost importance to 
the comfort of life that we should have a full se- 
curity by mutual faith ; and occasional incon- 
veniences should be willingly suffered, that we 
may preserve it. I deny,'' he observed further 
on, " the lawfulness of telling a lie to a sick man, 
for fear of alarming him. You have no business 
with consequences ; you are to tell the truth," 

Leaving what the great moralist himself added 
on this subject, because it is not necessary for my 
purpose, I shall do Boswell the justice to insert 
the following testimony, which he himself bears to 
the importance of truth. 

"I cannot help thinking that there is much 
weight in the opinion of those who have held that 
truth, as an eternal and immutable principle, is 
never to be viohted for supposed, previous, or 
superior obligations, of which, every man being 
led to judge for himself, there is great danger that 
we too often, from partial motives, persuade our- 
selves that they exist ; and, probably, whatever 
extraordinary instances may sometimes occur, 
where some evil may be prevented by violating 
this noble principle, it would be found that human 
happiness would, upon the whole, be more perfect, 
were truth universally preserved." 



* However Boswell's self-flattery might blind him, what he 
says relative to the harmlessness of servants denying their mas- 
ters, makes him an exception to this general rule. 
17* 



198 ILLUSTRATIONS OV LilS^ 

But, however just are the above observations, 
they are inferior in pithiness, and practical 
power, to the following few words, extracted from 
another of Johnson's sentences. " All truth is 
not of equal importance; but, if little violations 
be allowed, every violation will, in time he thought 
little:" 

The following quotation is from the 96th num- 
ber of the Rambler. Jt is the introduction to an 
Allegory, called Truth, Falsehood, and Fic- 
tion ; but, as I think his didactic is here superior 
to his narrative, I shall content myself with giv- 
ing the first. 

" It is reported of the Persians, by an ancient 
writer, that the sum of their education consisted 
in teaching youth to ride, to shoot with the bow, 
and to speak truth. The bow and (he horse were 
easily mastered: but it would have been happy 
if we had been informed by what arts veracity 
was cultivated, and by what preservations a 
Persian mind was secured against the temptations 
of falsehood. 

" There are indeed, in the present corruptions 
of mankind, many incitements to forsake truth; 
the need of palliating our own faults, and the con- 
venience of imposing on the ignorance or credu- 
lity of others, so frequently occur ; so many im- 
mediate evils are to be avoided, and so many 
present gratifications obtained by craft and de- 
lusion ; that very few of those who are much 
entangled in life, have spirit and constancy suf- 
ficient to support them in the steady practice of 
open veracity. In order that all men may be 
taught to speak truth, it is necessary that all like- 
wise should learn to hear it ; for no species of 
falsehood is more frequent than flattery, to which 
the coward is betrayed by fear, the dependant 



EXTRACTS. 199 

hy interest, and the friend by tenderness. Those 
who are neither servile nor timorous, are yet de- 
sirous to bestow pleasure ; and, while unjust de- 
mands of praise continue to be made, there will 
always be some whom hope, fear, or kindness, will 
dispose to pay them." 

There cannot be a stronger picture given of the 
difficulties attendant on speaking the strict truth : 
and 1 own I feel it to be a difficulty which it re- 
quires the highest of motives to enable us to over- 
come. Still, as the old proverb says, " where 
there is a will, there is a way ;" and if that will be 
derived from the only right source, the only effec- 
tive moiive, 1 am well convinced, that all obstacles 
to the utterance of spontaneous truth would at 
length vanish, and that falsehood would become as 
rare as it is contemptible and pernicious. 

The contemporary of Johnson and Hawkes- 
worth,Lord Karnes, comes next on my list of moral 
writers, who have treated on the subject of truth : 
but I am not able to give more than a short extract 
from his Sketches of the History of Man ; a work 
which had no small reputation in its day, and was 
in ever} 7 one's hand, till eclipsed by the depth and 
brilliancy of modern Scotch philosophers. 

He says, p. 169, in his 7th section, with respect 
to veracity in particular, " man is so constituted 
that he must be indebted to information for 
the knowledge of most things that benefit or hurt 
him; and if he could not depend on information, 
society would be very little benefitted. Further, 
it is wisely ordered, that we should be bound by 
the moral sense to speak truth, even where we per- 
ceive no harm in transgressing that duty, because it 
is sufficient that harm may come, though not foreseen ; 
at the same time, falsehood always does mischief. 
It may happen not to injure us externally in our 
reputation, or goods; but it never fails to injure 



200 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

us internally ; the sweetest and most refined plea- 
sure of society is a candid intercourse of senti- 
ments, of opinion, of desires, and wishes ; and it 
would be poisonous to indulge any falsehood in 
such an intercourse.*' 

My next extracts are from two celebrated di- 
vines of the Church of England, Bishop Beve- 
ridge, and Archdeacon Paley. The Bishop, in 
his " Private Thoughts," thus heads one of his 
sections ; which he denominates resolutions; — ) 

Resolution hi. — / am resolved, by the grace of 
God, always to make my tongue and heart go togeth- 
er, so as never to speak with the one, what I do not 
think with the other. 

" As my happiness consisteth in nearness and 
vicinity, so doth my holiness in likeness and con- 
formity, to the chiefest good. 1 am so much 
the better, as I am the liker the best; and so 
much the holier, as I am more conformable to 
the holiest, or rather to him who is holiness it- 
self. Now, one great title which the Most High 
is pleased to give himself, and by which, he is 
pleased to reveal himself to us, is the God of 
truth : so that I shall be so much the liker to 
the God of Truth, by how much I am the more 
constant to the truth of God. And, the farther 
I deviate from this, the nearer I approach to 
the nature of the devil, who is the father of lies, 
and liars too ; John viii. 44. And therefore to 
avoid the scandal and reproach, as well as the 
dangerous malignity, of this damnable sin, I am 
resolved, by the blessing of God, always to tune 
my tongue in unison to my heart, so as never to 
speak any thing, but what I think really to be 
true. So that, if ever I speak what is not true 
it shall not be the error of my will, but of my un- 
derstanding. 



EXTRACTS. 201 

u I know, lies are commonly distinguished into 
officious, pernicious, and jocose : and some may 
fancy some of them more tolerable than others. 
But, for my own part, I think they are all per- 
nicious; and therefore, not to be jested withal, 
nor indulged, upon any pretence or colour whatso- 
ever. Not as if it was a sin, not to speak exactly 
as a thing is in itself, or as it seems to me in its lit- 
eral meaning, without some liberty granted to rhet- 
orical tropes and figures ; [for so, the Scripture 
itself would be chargeable with lies ; many things 
being contained in it which are not true in a lit- 
eral sense.] But, I must so use rhetorical, as not 
to abuse my Christian liberty ; and therefore, nev- 
er to make use of hyperboles, ironies, or other 
tropes and figures, to deceive or impose upon my 
auditors, but only for the better adorning, illustrat- 
ing, or confirming the matter. 

" I am resolved never to promise any thing 
with my mouth, but what I intend to perform in 
my heart ; and never to intend to perform any 
thing, but what I am sure I can perform. For, 
though I may intend to do as I say now, yet there 
are a. thousand weighty things that intervene, 
which may turn the balance of my intentions, 
or otherwise hinder the performance of my 
promise." 

I come now to an extract from Dr. Paley, the 
justly celebrated author of the work entitled 
" Moral Philosophy." 

" A lie is a breach of promise : for whosoever 
seriously addresses his discourse to another, tacit- 
ly promises to speak the truth, because he knows 
that the truth is expected. Or the obligation of 
veracity may be made out from the direct ill 
consequences of lying to social happiness ; which 
consequences consist, either in some specific is- 



W$ ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

jury to particular individuals, or in the destruc- 
tion of that confidence which is essential to the 
intercourse of human life : for which latter reason 
a lie may be pernicious in its general tendency ; 
and therefore, criminal, though it produce no par- 
ticular or visible mischief to any one. There are 
falsehoods which are not lies ; that is, which are 
not criminal, as where no one is deceived ; which 
is the case in parables, fables, jests, tales to create 
mirth, ludicrous embellishments of a story, where 
the declared design of the speaker is not to inform 
but to divert ; compliments in the subscription of a 
letter ; a servant's denying his master ; a prisoner's 
pleading not guilty ; an advocate asserting the jus- 
tice, or his belief in the justice, of his client's cause. 
In such instances, no confidence is destroyed, be- 
cause none was reposed ; no promise to speak the 
truth is violated, because none was given or under- 
stood to be given* 

" In the first place, it is almost impossible to 
pronounce beforehand with certainty, concerning 
any lie, that it is inoffensive, volat irrevocable, 
and collects oft-times reactions in its flight, which 
entirely changes its nature. It may owe, possi- 
bly, its mischief to the officiousness or misrepre- 
sentation of those who circulate it ; but the mis- 
chief is, nevertheless*' in some degree chargeable 
upon the original editor. In the next place, this 
liberty in conversation defeats its own end. Much 
of the pleasure, and all the benefit, of conversa- 
tion depend upon our opinion of the speaker's ve- 
racity, for which this rule leaves no foundation. 
The faith, indeed, of a hearer must be extremely 
perplexed, who considers the speaker, or believes 
that the speaker considers himself, as under no 
obligation to adhere to truth, but according to the 
particular importance of what he relates. But, be- 



EXTRACTS. 20S 

side and above *both these reasons, white lies al- 
ways introduce others of a darker complexion. 
I have seldom known any one who deserted 
truth in trifles that could be trusted in matters of im- 
portance.* 

" Nice distinctions are out of the question upon 
occasions which, like those of speech, return 
every hour. The habit, therefore, when once 
formed, is easily extended to serve the designs of 
malice or interest ; like all habits, it spreads in- 
deed of itself. 

" As there may be falsehoods which are not 
lies, so there are many lies without literal or di- 
rect falsehood. An opening is always left for this 
species of prevarication, when the literal and 
grammatical signification of a sentence is different 
from the popular and customary meaning. It is 
the wilful deceit that makes the lie ; and we wil- 
fully deceive when our expressions are not true in 
the sense in which we believe the hearer appre- 
hends them. Besides, it is absurd to contend for 
any sense of words, in opposition to usage, and 
upon nothing else ; — or a man may act a lie, — as 
by pointing his finger in a wrong direction, when 
a traveller inquires of him his road ; — or when a 
tradesman shuts up his windows, to induce his 
creditors to believe that he is abroad : for, to all 
moral purposes, and therefore as to veracity, 
speech and action are the same ; — speech being 
only a mode of action. Or, lastly, there may be 
lies of omission. A writer on English history, 
who, in his account of the reign of Charles the 
first, should wilfully suppress any evidence of 



- How contrary is the spirit of this wise observation, and the 
following ones, to that which Paley manifests in his toleration 
of servants being taught to deny their masters ! 



204 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

that Prince's despotic measures arfd designs, might 
be said to lie ; for, by entitling his book a His- 
tory of England, he engages to relate the whole 
truth of the history, or, at least, all he knows 
of it." 

I feel entire unity of sentiment with Paley on 
all that he has advanced in these extracts, except 
in those passages which are printed in Italic; 
but Chalmers and Scott have given a complete 
refutation to his opinion on the innocence of a 
servant's denying his master, in the extracts given 
in a preceding chapter; and it will be ably re- 
futed in some succeeding extracts. But, eloquent 
and convincing as Paley generally is, it is not 
from his Moral Philosophy that he derives his 
purest reputation. He has long been considered 
as lax, negligent, and inconclusive, on many points, 
as a moral philosopher. 

It was when he came forward as a Christian 
warrior against infidelity, that he brought his best 
powers into the field ; and his name will live for 
ever as the author of Evidences of Christianity, 
and the Horas Paulinas.* 1 shall now avail my- 
self of the assistance of a powerful and eloquent 
writer of more modern date, William Godwin, 
with whom I have entire correspondence of opin- 
ion on the subject of spontaneous truth, though, 
on some other subjects, I decidedly differ from 
him. " It was further proposed," says he, " to 
consider the value of truth in a practical view, as 
it relates to the incidents and commerce of ordina- 



* I heard the venerable bishop of say that wh- n he 

gave Dr. Paley some very valuable preferment, he addrrssed 
him thus : " I give you this, Dr Paley, not for jour IN'oral 
Philosophy, nor for your JNatural Theolocy, but for your Evi- 
dences of Christianity, and your Horee Pauiinse." 



EXTRACTS. 205 

ry life, under which form it is known by the de- 
nominations of sincerity. 

" The powerful recommendations attendant on 
sincerity are obvious. It is intimately connected 
with the general dissemination of innocence, ener- 
gy, intellectual improvement, and philanthrophy. 
Did every man impose this law upon himself ; 
did he regard himself as not authorized to con- 
ceal any part of his character and conduct ; this 
circumstance alone would prevent millions of 
actions from being perpetrated, in which we are 
now induced to engage, by the prospect of suc- 
cess and impunity." " There is a further benefit 
that would result to me from the habit of telling 
every man the truth, regardless of the dictates of 
worldly prudence and custom ; — I should acquire 
a clear, ingenuous, and unembarrassed air. Ac- 
cording to the established modes of society, when- 
ever I have a circumstance to state which would 
require some effort of mind and discrimination, to 
enable me to do it justice, and state it with proper 
effect, I fly from the task, and take refuge in si- 
lence and equivocation." 

" But the principle which forbade me conceal- 
meut would keep my mind for ever awake, and 
for ever warm. I should always be obliged to 
exert my attention, lest in pretending to tell the 
tru'.h, I should tell it in so imperfect and mangled 
away, as to produce the effect of falsehood- If 
I spoke to a man of ny own faults, or ihose of 
his neighbour, I should be anxious not to suffer 
them to come distorted or exaggerated to his 
mind, or permit what at first was fact, to degene- 
rate into satire. If I spoke to him of the errors he 
bad himself committed, I should carefully avoid 
those inconsiderate expressions which might con* 
18 



206 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

vert what was in itself beneficent, into offence, 
and my thoughts would be full of that kindness 
and generous concern for his welfare which such 
a task necessarily brings with it. The effects of 
sincerity upon others would be similar to its ef- 
fects on him that practised it. Plain dealing, 
truth spoken with kindness, but spoken with sin- 
cerity, is the most wholesome of all disciplines." 
.... " The only species of sincerity which 
can, in any degree, prove satisfactory to the en- 
lightened moralist and politician, is that where 
frankness is perfect, and every degree of reserve 
is discarded." 

" Nor is there any danger that such a character 
should degenerate into ruggedness and brutality. 

" Sincerity, upon the principles on which it is 
here recommended, is practised from a conscious- 
ness of its utility, and from sentiments of philan- 
thropy. \ 

" It will communicate frankness to the voice, 
fervour to the gesture, and kindness to the heart. 

" The duty of sincerity is one of those general 
principles which reflection and experience have 
enjoined upon us as conducive to the happiness of 
mankind. 

" Sincerity, and plain dealing are eminently con- 
ducive to the interests of mankind at large, because 
they afford that ground of confidence and reason- 
able expectation which are essential to wisdom 
and virtue." 

I feel it difficult to forbear giving further ex- 
tracts from this very interesting and well-argued 
part of the work from which I quote ; but the 
limits necessary for my own book forbid me to 
to indulge myself in copious quotations from this. 
1 must, however, give two further extracts from 
the conclusion of this chapter. " No man can be 



EXTRACTS. 207 

eminently either respectable, or amiable, or use- 
ful, who is not distinguished for the frankness 
and candour of his manners, ..... He that 
is not conspicuously sincere, either very little 
partakes of the passion of doing good, or is piti- 
ably ignorant of the means by which the objects 
of true benevolence are to be effected." The 
writer proceeds to discuss the mode of exclud- 
ing visiters, and it is done in so powerful a man- 
ner, that I must avail myself of the aid which it 
affords me. 

" Let us then, according to the well-known 
axiom of morality, put ourselves in the place of 
that man upon whom is imposed this ungracious 
task. Is there any of us that would be contented 
to perform it in person, and to say that our father 
and brother was not at home, when they were 
really in the house ? Should we not feel our- 
selves contaminated by the plebeian lie ? Can 
we thus be justified in requiring that from an- 
other which we should shrink from as an act of 
dishonour in ourselves ?" I must here beg leave 
to state that, generally speaking, masters and mis- 
tresses only command their servants to tell a lie 
which they would be very willing to tell themselves* 
I have heard wives deny their husbands, husbands 
their wives, children their parents, and parents 
their children, with as much unblushing effrontery 
at if there were no such thing as truth, or its obli- 
gations ; but I respect his question on this sub- 
ject, envy him his ignorance, and admire his epi- 
thet plebeian lie. 

Bat then, 1 think that all lies are plebeian. Was 
it not a king of France, a captive in his kingdom, 
who said, (with an honourable consciousness, that 
a sovereign is entitled to set a high example to his 
people,) " if honour be driven from every other 



208 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

spot, it should always inhabit the breast of kings ! n 
and if truth be banished trom every other de- 
scription of persons, it ought more especially to be 
found on the lips of those whom rank and fortune 
have placed above the reach of strong temptation 
to falsehood. 

But, while I think that, however exalted be the 
rank of the person who utters a lie, that person 
suffers by his deceit a worse than plebeian de- 
gradation. 1 also assert, that the humblest plebe- 
ian, who is known to be incapable of falsehood, 
and to utter, on all occasions, spontaneous truth, 
is raised far above the mendacious patrician in 
the scale of real respectability ; and in compar- 
ison, the plebeian becomes patrician, and the pa- 
trician plebeian. 

I shall conclude my references, with extracts 
from two modern Scotch philosophers of consider- 
able and deserved reputation, Dr. Reid, and Dr. 
Thomas Browne.* 

" Without fidelity and trust, there can be no hu- 
man society. There never was a society even of 
savages, nay, even of robbers and pirates, in 
which there was not a great degree of veracity 
and fidelity amongst themselves. Every man 
thinks himself injured and ill-used when he is im- 
posed upon. Every man takes it as a reproach 
when falsehood is imputed to him. There are 
the clearest evidences that all men disapprove of 
falsehood, when their judgment is not biassed." — 
Raid's Essays on the Power of the Human Mind, 
chap. vi. " On the Nature of a Contract." 



* This latter gentleman, with whom I had the pleasure of be- 
ing personally acquainted, has, by his early death, left a chasm 
in the world of literature, and in the domestic circle in which he 
moved, which cannot easily be filled up. 



EXTRACTS, 



209 



u The next duty of which we have to treat, is 
that of veracity, which relates to the knowledge 
or belief of others, as capable of being affected by 
the meanings, true or false, which our words or 
our conduct may convey ; and consists in the 
faithful conformity of our language, or of our con- 
duct, when it is intended tacitly to supply the 
place of language to the truth which we profess to 
deliver; or, at least, to that which is at the time 
believed by us to be true. So much of the hap- 
piness of social life is derived from the use of lan- 
guage, and so profitless would the mere power of 
language be, but for the truth which dictates it, 
that the abuse of the confidence which is placed 
in our declarations may not merely be in the 
highest degree injurious to the individual deceived, 
but would tend, if general, to throw back the 
whole race of mankind into that barbarism from 
which they have emerged, and ascended through 
still purer air, and still brighter sunshine, to that 
noble height which they have reached. It is not 
wonderful, therefore, that veracity, so important 
to the happiness of all, and yet subject to so many 
temptations of personal interest in the violation of 
it, should, in all nations, have had a high place 
assigned to it among the virtues " — Dr. Thomas 
Browne's Lectures on- the Philosophy of the Human 
Mind, vol iv. p. 225. 

It may be asked why I have taken the trouble 
to quote from so many authors, in order to prove 
what no one ever doubted ; namely, the impor- 
tance and necessity of speaking the truth, and the 
meanness and mischief of uttering falsehood. 
But I have added authority to authority, in order 
renewedly to force on the attention of my readers 
that not one of these writers mentions any allow- 
18* 



210 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ed exception to the general rule, that truth is al- 
ways to be spoken ; no mental reservation is point- 
ed out as permitted on special occasions ; no indi- 
vidual is authorized to be the judge of right or 
wrong in his own case, and to set his own opin- 
ion of the propriety and necessity of lying, in par- 
ticular instances, against the positive precept to 
abstain from lying ; an injunction which is so 
commonly enforced in the page of the moralist, 
that it becomes a sort of imperative command. 
Still, in spite of the universally-acknowledged con- 
viction of mankind, that truth is virtue, and false- 
hood vice, I scarcely know an individual who 
does not occasionally shrink from acting up to his 
conviction on this point, and is not, at times, irre- 
sistibly impelled to qualify that conviction, by 
saying, that on " almost all occasions the truth is 
to be spoken, and never to be withheld." Or 
they may, perhaps, quote the well known pro- 
verb, that " truth is not to bespoken at all times." 
But the real meaning of that proverb appears to 
me to be simply this : that we are never officious- 
ly or gratuitously to utter offensive truths; not 
that truth, when required, is ever to be withheld. 
The principle of truth is an immutable principle, 
or it is of no use as a guard, nor safe as the foun- 
dation of morals. A moral law on which it is 
dangerous to act to the uttermost, is, however ad- 
mirable, no better than Harlequin's horse, which 
was the very best and finest of all horses, and 
worthy of the admiration of the whoie world ; but, 
unfortunately, the horse was dead ; and if the 
law to tell the truth inviolably, is not to be strict- 
ly adhered to, without any regard to consequen- 
ces, it is, however admirable, as useless as the 
merits of Harlequin's dead horse. King Theodo- 
ric, when advised by his courtiers to debase the 



EXTRACTS. 211 

coin, declared, " that nothing which bore his 
image should ever lie." Happy would it be for 
the interests of society, if, having as much proper 
self-respect as this good monarch had, we could 
resolve never to allow our looks or words to bear 
any impress, but that of the strict truth > and 
were as reluctant to give a false impression of our- 
selves, in any way, as to circulate light sovereigns 
and forged banknotes. Oh ! that the day may 
come when it shall be thought as dishonourable to 
commit the slightest breach of veracity, as to pass 
counterfeit shillings ; and when both shall be 
deemed equally detrimental to the safety and pros- 
perity of the community. 

. I intend in a future work to make some obser- 
vations on several collateral descendants from the 
large family of lies. Such as inaccuracy in re- 
lation ; promise-breaking ; engagement-break- 
ing, and want of punctuality. Perhaps pro- 
crastination comes in a degree under the nead 
of lying; at least procrastinators lie to themselves ; 
they say " I will do so and so to-morrow," and as 
they believe their own assertions, they are guilty 
of self-deception, the most dangerous of all de- 
ceptions. But those who are enabled by con- 
stant watchfulness never to deceive others, will at 
last learn never to deceive themselves ; for truth 
being their constant aim in all their dealings they 
will not shrink from that most effective of all 
means to acquire it, self-examination. 



212 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 



CHAPTER XV. 

OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS FROM HAWKES- 
WORTH AND OTHERS. 

In the preceding chapter, I have given various 
extracts from authors who have written on the 
subject of truth and borne their testimony to the 
necessity of a strict adherence to it on all occa- 
sions, if individuals wish not only to be safe and 
respectable themselves, but to establish the inter- 
ests of society on a sure foundation ; but, before 
I proceed to other comments on this important sub- 
ject, I shall make observations on some of the 
above-mentioned extracts. 

Dr. Hawkesworth says, " that the liar, and 
only the liar, is universally despised, abandoned, 
and disowned." But is this the fact? Incon- 
venient, dangerous, and disagreeable, though it 
be, to associate with those on whose veracity we 
cannot depend ; yet which of us has ever known 
himself, or others, refuse intercourse with persons 
who habitually violate the truth ? We dismiss 
the servant indeed, whose habit of lying offends us, 
and we cease to employ the menial, or the trades- 
man ; but when did we ever hesitate to associate 
with the liar of rank and opulence ? When was 
our moral sense so delicate as to make us refuse 
to eat of the costly food, and reject the favour or 
services of any one, because the lips of the oblig- 
er were stained with falsehood, and the conversa- 
tion with guile 1 Surely, this writer overrates the 
delicacy of moral feeling in society, or we, of these 
latter days, have fearfully degenerated from our 
ancestors. 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 213 

He also says, " that the imputation of a lie, is 
an insult for which life only can atones" And 
amongst men of worldly honour, duel is undoubt- 
edly the result of the lie given, and received. 
Consequently, the interests of truth are placed 
under the secure guardianship of fear on great oc- 
casions. But, it is not so on daily, and more com- 
mon ones, and the man who would thus fatally re- 
sent the imputation of falsehood, does not even re- 
prove the lie of convenience in his wife or chil- 
dren, nor refrain from being guilty of it himself ; 
he will often, perhaps, be the bearer of a lie to 
excuse them from keeping a disagreeable en- 
gagement ; and will not scruple to make lying 
apologies for some negligence of his own. But, 
is Dr. Hawkesworth right in saying that offenders 
like these are shunned and despised ? Certainly 
not ; nor are they even self-reprobated, nor would 
they be censured by others, if their falsehood 
were detected. Yet, are they not liars ? and is 
the lie, imputed to them, (in resentment of which 
imputation they were willing to risk their life, and 
the life of another,) a greater breach of the moral 
law, than the little lies which they are so willing 
to tell ? and who, that is known to tell lies on tri- 
vial occasions, has a right to resent the imputation 
of lying on great ones ? Whatever flattering unc- 
tion we may lay to our souls, there is only one 
wrong and one right ; and I repeat, that, as those 
servants who pilfer grocery only are with justice 
called thieves, because they have thereby shown 
that the principle of honesty is not in them, — so 
may the utterers of little lies be with justice call- 
ed liars, because they equally show that they are 
strangers to the restraining and immutable prin- 
ciples of truth. 

Hawkesworth says, " that indirect lies more e£ 



214 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

fectuallj destroy mutual confidence, that band of 
society, than any others ; and J fully agree with 
him in his idea of the '* great turpitude, and great- 
er meanness, of those forms of speech, which de- 
ceive without direct falsehood ;" but I cannot 
agree with him, that these deviations from truth 
are " universally infamous ;" on the contrary, they 
are even scarcely reckoned a fault at all ; their 
very frequency prevents them from being censur- 
ed, and they are often considered both necessary 
and justifiable. 

In that touching and useful tale by which 
Hawkesworth illustrates the pernicious effect of 
indirect, as well as direct, lies, " a lie put into the 
mouth of a chairman, and another lie, accompanied 
by withholding of the whole truth, are the 
occasion of duel and of death." 

And what were these lies, direct and indirect, 
active and passive ? Simply these. The bearer 
of a note is desired to say that he comes from a 
milliner, when, in reality, he comes from a lady in 
the neighbourhood ; and one of the principal ac- 
tors in the story leaves word that he is gone to a 
coffee-house, when, in point of fact, he is gone to a 
friend's house. That friend, on being questioned 
by him, withholds, or conceals part of the truth, 
meaning to deceive ; the wife of the questioner dots 
the same, and thus, though both are innocent even 
in thought, of any thing offensive to the strictest 
propriety, they become involved in the fatal con- 
sequences of imputed guilt, from which a disclo- 
sure of the whole truth would at once have pre- 
served them. 

Now, I would ask if there be any thing more 
common in the daily affairs of life, than those very 
lies and dissimulations which I have selected ? 

Who has not given, or heard given, this order, 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 215 

" do not say where you come from ;" and often 
accompanied by " if you are asked, say you do 
not know, or you come from such a place." Who 
does not frequently conceal where they have 
been ; and while they own to the questioner that 
they have been to such a place, and seen such a 
person, keep back the information that they have 
been to another place, and seen another person, 
though they are very conscious that the two latter 
were the real objects of the inquiry made ? 

Some may reply, " yes ; 1 do these things every 
day perhaps, and so does every one ; and where 
is the harm of it ? You cannot be so absurd as 
to believe that such innocent lies, and a conceal- 
ment such as 1 have a right to indulge in, will cer- 
tainly be visited by consequences like those im* 
agined by a writer of fiction ?" 

I answer, no ; but though' I cannot be sure that 
fatal consequences will be the result of that impos- 
sible thing, an innocent lie, some consequences 
attend on all deviations from truth, which it were 
better to avoid. In the first place, the lying order 
given to a servant, or inferior, not only lowers the 
standard of truth in the mind of the person so 
commanded, but it lowers the person who gives it ; 
it weakens that salutary respect with which the 
lower orders regard the higher ; servants and in- 
feriors are shrewd observers ; and those domestics 
who detect a laxity of morals in their employers, 
and find that they do not hold truth sacred, but 
are ready to teach others to lie for their service, 
deprive themselves of their best claim to respect 
and obedience from them, that of a deep convic- 
tion of their moral superiority. And they who 
discover in their intimate friends and associates a 
systematic habit, an assumed and exercised right 
of telling only as much of the truth as suits their in- 



216 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

elinations and purposes, must feel their confidence 
in them most painfully destroyed ; and listen, in 
future, to their disclosures and communications 
with unavoidable suspicion, and degrading distrust. 

The account given by Boswell of the regard 
paid by Dr. Johnson to truth on all occasions, fur- 
nishes us with a still better shield against devia- 
tions from it, than can be afforded even by the 
best and most moral fiction. For, as Longinus was 
said " to be himself the great sublime he draws," so 
Johnson was himself the great example of the be* 
nefit of those precepts which he lays down for the 
edification of others ; and what is still more use- 
ful and valuable to us, he proves that however dif- 
ficult it may be to speak the truth, and to be ac- 
curate on all occasions, it is certainly possible ; for, 
as Johnson could do it, why cannot others? It re- 
quires not his force of intellect to enable us to fol- 
low his example ; all that is necessary is a knowl- 
edge of right and wrong, a reverence for truth, and 
an abhorrence of deceit. 

Such was Johnson's known habit of telling the 
truth, that even improbable things were believed, 
if he narrated them ! Such was the respect for 
truth which his practice of it excited, and such the 
beneficial influence of his example, that all his in- 
timate companions " were distinguished for a love 
of truth and an accuracy " dented from associa- 
tion with him. 

I can never read this account of our great mor- 
alist, without feeling my heart glow with emula- 
tion and triumph ! With emulation, because I 
know that it must be my own fault, if 1 become 
not as habitually the votary of truth as he himself 
was ; and with triumph, because it is a complete 
refutation of the commonplace arguments against 
enforcing the necessity of spontaneous truth, that 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 21 7 

it is absolutely impossible ; and that, if possible, 
what would be gained by it ? • 

What would be gained by it ? Society at large 
would, in the end, gain a degree of safety and 
purity far beyond what it has hitherto known ;and, 
in the meanwhile, the individuals who speak truth 
would obtain a prize worthy the highest aspirings 
of earthly ambition, — the constant and involuntary 
confidence and reverence of their fellow-creatures. 

The consciousness of truth and ingenuousness 
gives a radiance to the countenance, a freedom to 
the play of the lips, a persuasion to the voice, and 
a graceful dignity to the person, which no other 
quality of mind can equally bestow. And who is 
not able to recollect the direct contrast to this pic- 
ture exhibited by the conscious utterer of false- 
hood and disingenuousness ? Who has not ob- 
served the downcast eye, the snapping restless 
eyelid, the changing colour, and the hoarse, im- 
peded voice, which sometimes contradict what the 
hesitating lip utters, and stamp, on the positive as- 
sertion, the undoubted evidence of deceit and in- 
sincerity ? 

Those who make up the usual mass of society 
are, when tempted to its common dissimulations, 
like little boats on the ocean, which are continu- 
ally forced to shift sail, and row away from dan- 
ger ; or, if obliged to await it, are necessitated, 
from want of power, to get on one side of the bil- 
low, instead of directly meeting it. While the 
firm votaries of truth, when exposed to the temp- 
tations of falsehood, proceed undaunted along the 
direct course, like the majestic vessel, coming bold- 
ly and directly on, breasting the waves in con- 
scious security, and inspiring confidence in all 
whose well-being is intrusted to them. Is it not a 
19 



218 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

delightful sensation to feel and to fnspire confi- 
dence ? Is it not delightful to know, when we lie 
down at night, that, however darkness may enve- 
lope us, the sun will undoubtedly rise again, and 
chase away the gloom ? True, he may rise in 
clouds, and his usual splendour may not shine out 
upon us during the whole diurnal revolution ; still 
we know that though there be not sunshine, there 
will be light, and we betake ourselves to our 
couch, confiding in the assurances of past experi- 
ence, that day will succeed to night, and light to 
darkness. But, is it not equally delightful to feel 
this cheering confidence in the moral system of 
the circle in which we move ? And can any thing 
inspire it so much as the constant habit of truth in 
those with whom we live ? To know that we 
have friends on whom we can always rely for 
honest counsel, ingenuous reproof, and sine re 
sympathy, — to whom we can look with never- 
doubting confidence in the night of our soul's des- 
pondency, knowing that they will rise on us like 
the cheering never-failing light of day, speaking 
unwelcome truths perhaps, but speaking them with 
tenderness and discretion, — is, surely, one of the 
dearest comforts which this world can give. It is 
the most precious of the earthly staffs, permitted 
to support us as we go, trembling, short-sighted, 
and weary, pilgrims, along the chequered path of 
human existence. 

And is it not an ambition worthy of thinking and 
responsible beings to endeavour to qualify our- 
selves, and those whom we love, to be such friends 
as these ? And if habits of unblemished truth 
will bestow this qualification, were it not wise to 
labour hard in order to attain them, undaunled 
by difficulty, undeterred by the sneers of world- 
lings, who cannot believe in the possibility of that 



OBSERVATIONS ON THE EXTRACTS. 219 

moral excellence which they feel themselves un- 
able to obtain ? 

To you, O ye parents and preceptors ! I par- 
ticularly address myself. Guard your own lips 
from " speaking leasing," that the quickly discern- 
ing child or servant, may not, in self-defence, set 
the force of your example against that of your pre- 
cepts. If each individual family would seriously 
resolve to avoid every species of falsehood them- 
selves, whether authorized by custom or not, and 
would visit every deviation from truth, in those 
accused, with punishment and disgraee, the exam- 
ple would unceasingly spread ; for, even now, 
wherever the beauty of truth is seen, its influence 
is immediately felt, and its value acknowledged. 
Individual efforts, however humble, if firm and 
repeated, must be ultimately successful, as the 
feeble mouse in the fable was, at last, enabled, by 
its perseverance, to gnaw the cords asunder which 
held the mighty lion. Difficult, I own, would such 
general purification be ; but what is impossible to 
zeal and enterprize ? 

Hercules, as fabulous but instructive story tells 
us, when he was required to perform the apparent- 
ly impossible task of cleansing the Augean stables, 
exerted all his strength, and turned the course of 
a river through them to effect his purpose, proving 
by his success, that nothing is impossible to perse- 
verance and exertion ; and however long the du- 
ration, and wide-spreading the pollutions of false- 
hood and dissimulation in the world, there is a 
river, which, if suffered to flow over their impuri- 
ties, is powerful enough to wash away every stain, 
since it flows from the " fountain of ever-living 



220 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

RELIGION THE ONLY BASIS OF TRUTH. 

All the moralists from whom I have quoted, 
and those on whom 1 have commented in the pre- 
ceding chapters, have treated the subject of truth, 
as moralists only. They do not lay it down as an 
indisputable fact, that truth, as a principle of ac- 
tion, is obligatory on us all. in enjoined obedience to 
the clear dictates of revealed religion. Therefore, 
they have kept out of sight the strongest motives 
to abhor lying, and cleave unto truth, obedience 
to the divine will; yet, as necessary as were the 
shield and the buckler to the ancient warriors, is 
the u breastplate of faith " to the cause of sponta- 
neous truth. It has been asserted that morality 
might exist in all its power and purity, were there 
no such thing as religion, since it is conducive to 
the earthly interests and happiness of man. But, 
are moral motives sufficient to protect us in times 
of particular temptations ? There appears to me 
the same difference between morality, unprotect- 
ed by religious motives, and morality derived 
from them, as between the palace of ice, famous in 
Russian story, and a castle built of ever-during 
stone ; perfect to the eye, and, as if formed to last 
for ever was the building of frost-work, ornament- 
ed and lighted up for the pleasure of the sover- 
eign ; but, it melted aw 7 ay before the power of 
natural and artificial warmth, and was quickly 
resolved to the element from which it sprung. But 
the castle formed of stones joined together by a 
strong and enduring cement, is proof against all 
assailment 5 and, even though it may be occasion- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 221 

ally shattered by the enemies, it still towers in its 
grandeur, indestructible, though impaired. In 
like manner, unassailable and perfect, in appear- 
ance, may be the virtue of the mere moralist ; but 
when assailed by the warmth of the passions on one 
side, and by different enemies on the other, his 
virtue, like the palace of ice, is likely to melt 
away, and be as though it had not been. But, 
the virtue of the truly religious man, even though 
it may on occasion be slightly shaken, is yet proof 
against any important injury ; and remains, spite 
of temptation and danger, in its original purity and 
power. The moral man may, therefore utter 
spontaneous truth; but the religious man must : 
for he remembers the following precepts, which 
amongst others he has learned from the scrip- 
tures ; and knows that to speak lies is displeasing 

tO the GOD OF TRUTH. 

In the 6th chapter of Leviticus, the Lord threat- 
ens the man u Who lies to his neighbour, and who 
deceives his neighbour." Again he says, " Ye 
shall not deal falsely, neither lie to one another." 
We read in the Psalms that " the Lord will de- 
stroy those who speak leasing." He is said to be 
angry with the wicked every day, who have con- 
ceived mischief, and brought forth falsehood. 
" He that worketh deceit," says the Psalmist, 
; ' shall not dwell within my house — he that telleth 
lies shall not tarry in my sight." The Saviour, in 
the 8th chapter of John, calls the devil u a liar, 
and the father of lies." Paul, in the 3d chapter 
of Colossians, says, " Lie not one tb another !" 
Prov. vi. 19, " The Lord hates a false witness 
that speaketh lies." Prov. ix. " And he that 
speaketh lies shall perish." Prov. xix, 22, " A 
poor man is better than a liar." James iii. 14, 
19* 



222 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

" Lie not against the truth." Isaiah xvii. "The 
Lord shall sweep away the refuge of lies." 
Prov, xviii. kt Let the lying lips be put to silence." 
P»aim cxix. 29. '■ Remove from me the way of 
lying." Ps. Ixiii. 11, ^ The mouth that speaketh 
lies shall be stopped." The fate of Gehazi, in the 
5th chapter of the second book of Kings, who lied 
to the prophet Elisha, and went out of his pre- 
sence " a leper whiter than snow ;" and the 
judgment on Ananias and Sapphira,in the 5th chap- 
ter of Acts, on the former for withholding the 
truth intending to deceive, and on the latter for 
telling a direct lie, are awful proofs how hateful 
filsebood is in the sight of the Almighty ; and, 
that though the seasons of his immediate judg- 
ments may be past, his vengeance against every 
species of falsehood is tremendously certain. 

But though, as I have stated more than once, all 
persons, even those who are most negligent of 
truth, exclaim continually against lying ; and liars 
cannot forgive the slightest imputation against their 
veracity, still, few are willing to admit that telling 
lies of courtesy, or convenience, is lying ; or thai 
the occasional violator of truth, for what are call- 
ed innocent purposes, ought to be considered as a 
liar ; and thence the universal falsehood which 
prevails. And, surely, that moral precept which 
every one claims a right to violate, according to 
his wants and wishes, loses its restraining power, 
and is, as I have before observed, for all its origi- 
nal purposes, wholly annihilated. 

But, as that person has no right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
being who allows himself to indulge in any one 
species of lie, cannot declare with justice that he 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 22Sr 

deserves not the name of a liar. The general 
voice and tenor of Scripture say " lie not at all." 

This may appear a command very difficult to 
obey, but he who gave it, has given us a still more 
appalling one ; " be ye perfect, as your Father in 
heaven is perfect." Yet surely, he would never 
have given a command impossible for us to fulfil. 
However, be that as it may, we are to try to fulfil 
it. The drawing-master who would form a pupil 
to excellence, does not set incorrect copies be- 
fore him, but the most perfect models of immortal 
art ; and that tyro who is awed into doing nothing 
by the perfection of his model, is not more weak 
than those who persevere in the practice of lying 
by the seeming impossibility of constantly telling 
the truth. The pupil may never be able to copy 
the model set before him, because his aids are 
only human and earthly ones. But, 

He who has said that " as our day our strength 
shall be ;" He whose ear is open to the softest 
cry ; He whom the royal psalmist called upon to 
deliver him from those " whose mouth speaketh 
vanity, and whose right hand is a right hand of 
falsehood ;" — This pure, this powerful, this per- 
fect Being, still lives to listen to the supplications 
of all who trust in him ; and will, in the hour of 
temptation to utter falsehood and deceit, strength- 
en them out of Zion. 

In all other times of danger the believer suppli- 
cates the Lord to grant him force to resist tempta- 
tion; but, whoever thinks of supplicating him to 
be enabled to resist daily temptation to what is 
called little, or white lying 1 Yet, has the Lord re- 
vealed to us what species of lying he tolerates, 
and what he reproves ? Does he tell us that we 
may tell the lie of courtesy and convenience, but 
avoid all others ? The lying of Ananias was only 



224 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the passive lie of concealing that he had kept 
back part of his own property, yel he was punished 
with instant death ! The only safety is in believ- 
ing, or remembering, that all lying and insincerity 
whatever is rebellion against the revealed will of 
the great God of Truth ; and they whoso believe, 
or remember, are prepared for the strongest at- 
tacks of the soul's adversary, " that devil, who 
is the father of lies ;" for their weapons ore deriv- 
ed from the armoury of heaven ; their steps are 
guided by light from the sanctuary, and the 
cleansing river by which they are enabled to 
drive away all the pollutions of falsehood and 
deceit, is that pure river of " the water of life, 
flowing from the throne of God, and of the 
Lamb." 

I trust, that I have not in any of the preceding 
pages underrated the difficulty of always speaking 
the truth ; — I have only denied that it was impossi- 
ble to do so, and I have pointed out the only means 
by which the possibility of resisting the tempta- 
tion to utter falsehood might be secured to us on 
all occasions ; namely, religious motives derived 
from obedience to the will of God. 

Still, in order to prove how well aware I am of 
the difficulty in question, 1 shall venture to bring 
forward some distinguished instances on record of 
holy men, who were led by the fear of death 
and other motives to lie against their consciences ; 
thereby exhibiting beyond a doubt, the difficulty 
of a constant adherence to the practice of sinceri- 
ty. But they also prove that the real Christian 
must be miserable under a consciousness of having 
violated the truth, and that to escape from the 
most poignant of all pangs the pangs of self-re- 
proach, the delinquents in question sought for re- 
fuge from their remorse, by courting that very 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 225 

death which they had endeavoured to escape 
from, by being guilty of falsehood. They at the 
same time furnish convincing proofs that it is in 
the power of the sincere penitent to retrace his 
steps, and be reinstated in the height of virtue 
whence he has fallen, if he will humble himself 
before the great Being whom he has offended, 
and call upon Him who can alone save to the ut- 
termost." 

My first three examples are taken from the 
martyred reformers, who were guilty of the most 
awful species of lying, in signing recantations of 
their opinions, even when their belief in them re- 
mained unchanged ; but who, as I have before 
observed, were compelled by the power of that 
word of God written on the depth of the secret 
heart, to repent with agonizing bitterness of their 
apostacy from truth, and to make a public repara- 
tion for their short-lived error, by a death of pa- 
tient suffering, and even of rejoicing. 

Jerome of Prague comes first upon the list. 
He was born at the close of the thirteenth cen- 
tury; and in the year 1415, after having spent 
his youth in the pursuit of knowledge at the great- 
est Universities in Europe, — namely, those of 
Prague, Paris, Heidelberg, and Cologne, — we 
find him visiting Oxford, at which place he be^ 
came acquainted with the works of Wickliffe; and 
at his return to Prague he not only professed him- 
self an open favourer of the doctrines of that cele- 
brated reformer ; but r finding that John Huss was 
at the head of Wickliffe's party in Bohemia, he at- 
tached himself immediately to that powerful lead- 
er. It were unnecessary for me to follow him 
through the whole of his polemical career, as it is 
the close of it only which is fitted for my purpose ; 
suffice, that having been brought before the Coun- 



226 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

cil of Constance, in the year 1415, to answer for 
what they deemed his heresies, a thousand voices 
called out, even after his first examination, " away 
with him ! burn him ! burn him ! burn him !" On 
which, little doubting that his power and virtuous 
resistance could ever fail him in time of need, Je- 
rome replied, looking round on the assembly with 
dignity and confidence, " Since nothing can satis- 
fy you but my blood, God's will be done !" 

Severities of a most uncommon nature were now 
inflicted on him, in order to constrain him to re- 
cant, a point of which the council were excessive- 
ly desirous. So rigourous was his confinement, 
that at length it brought upon him a dangerous 
illness, in the course of which he entreated to have 
a confessor sent to him ; but he was given to un- 
derstand, that only on certain terms would this in- 
dulgence be granted; notwithstanding, he remain- 
ed immoveable. The next attempt on his faith- 
fulness was after the martyrdom of Huss ; when all 
its affecting and appalling details were made known 
to him, he listened, however, without emotion, and 
answered in language so resolute and determined, 
that the}- had certainly no hope of his sudden con- 
version. But, whether, too confident in his own 
strength, he neglected to seek, as he had hitherto 
done, that only strength " which cometh from 
above," it is certain that his constancy at length 
gave way. " He withstood," says Gilpin, in his 
Lives of the Reformers, " the simple fear of death; 
but imprisonment, chains, hunger, sickness, and 
torture, through a succession of months, was more 
than human nature could bear ; and though he still 
made a noble stand for the truth, when brought 
three times before the infuriated council, he be- 
gin at last to waver, and to talk obscurely of his 
having misunderstood the tendency of some of the 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 22? 

writings of Huss. Promises and threats were now 
redoubled upon hiin, till, at last, he read aloud an 
ample recantation of all the opinions that he had 
recently entertained, and declared himself in eve- 
ry article a firm believer with the church of 
Rome." 

But with a heavy heart he retired from the 
council ; chains were removed from his body, but 
his mind was corroded by chains of his con- 
science, and his soul was burthened with a load, 
till then unknown to it. Hitherto, the light of an 
approving conscience had cheered the gloom of 
his dungeon, but now all was dark to him both 
without and within. 

But in this night of his moral despair, the day- 
spring from on high was again permitted to visit 
him, and the penitent was once more enabled to 
seek assistance from his God. Jerome had long 
been apprized that he was to be brought to a sec- 
ond trial, upon some new evidence which had ap- 
peared ; and this was his only consolation in the 
midst of his painful penitence. At length the mo- 
ment so ardently desired by him arrived ; and, 
rejoicing at an opportunity of publicly retracting 
his errors, and deploring his unworthy falsehood, 
he eagerly obeyed the summons to appear before 
the council in the year 1416. There after deliv- 
ering an oration, which was, it is said, a model of 
pathetic eloquence, he ended by declaring before 
the whole assembly, "that, though the fear of 
death, and the prevalence of human infirmity, had 
induced him to retract those opinions with his lips 
which had drawn on him the anger and ven- 
geance of the council, yet they were then and still 
the opinions near and dear to his heart, and that 
he solemnly declared they were opinions in which 
he alone believed, and for which he was ready, 



228 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and even glad to die." " It was expected," says 
Ptfgg^ the Florentine, who was present at his ex- 
amination, Ck that he would have retracted his er- 
rors ; or, at least, have apologized lor them ; but 
he plainly declared that he had nothing to re- 
tract." After launching forth into the most elo* 
queut encomiums on Huss, declaring him to be a 
wise and holy man, and lamenting his unjust and 
cruel death, he avowed that he had armed him- 
self with a firm resolution to follow the steps of 
that blessed martyr, and suffer with constancy 
whatever the malice of his enemies should inflict ; 
and he was mercifully enabled to keep his re- 
solution. 

When brought to the stake, and when the wood 
was beginning to blaze, he sang a hymn, which he 
continued with great fervency, till the fury of the 
fire scorching him, he was heard to cry out, u O 
Lord God ! have mercy on me !" and a little af- 
terwards, u thou knowest,*' he cried, u how I 
have loved thy truth ;" and he continued to ex- 
hibit a spectacle of intense suffering, made bear- 
able by as intense devotion, till the vital spark was 
in mercy permitted to expire ; and the contrite, 
but then triumphant, spirit was allowed to return 
unto the God who gave it. 

Thomas Bilnev, the next on my list, u was 
brought up from a child (says Fox, in his Acts 
and Monuments) in the University of Cambridge, 
profiting in all kind of liberal sciences even unto 
the profession of both laws. But, at the last, hav- 
ing gotten a better school-master, even the Holy 
Spirit of Christ enduing his heart by privie inspi- 
ration with the knowledge of better and more 
wholesome things, he came unto this point, that 
forsaking the knowledge of man's lawes he con- 
verted his studie to those things which tended 



RELIGION THE BA8IS OF TRUTH. 229 

more unto godlinesse, than gainfulnesse. At the 
last,Bilney forsaking the universitie,went into many 
places teaching and preaching, being associate 
with Thomas Arthur, which accompanied him 
from the universitie. The authoritie of Thomas 
Wolsey, Cardinall of York, at that time was greate 
in England, but his temper and pride much great- 
er, which did evidently declare unto all wise men 
the maifest vanitie, not only of his life, but also 
of all the Bishops and clergie ; whereupon, Bilney 
with other good men, marvelling at the incredible 
insolence of the clergie, which they could no long- 
er suffer or abide, began to shake and reprove 
this excessive pompe, and also to pluck at the 
authority of the Bishop of Rome." 

It therefore became necessary that the Cardinal 
should rouse himself and look about him. A 
chapter being held at Westminster for the occasion 
Thomas Bilney, with his friends, Thomas Arthur 
and Hugh Latimer, were brought before them. 
Gilpin says, " That, as Bilney was considered as 
the Heresiarch, the rigour of the court was chief- 
ly levelled against him. The principal persons 
at this time concerned in Ecclesiastical affaires 
besides Cardinal Wolsey, were Warham, Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, and Tunstall, Bishop of 
London." The latter was of all the prelates of 
these times the most deservedly esteemed, u as 
he was not influenced by the spirit of popery, and 
had just notions of the mild genius of Christiani- 
ty ;" but, every deposition against Bilney was en- 
larged upon with such unrelenting bitterness, that 
Tunstal), though the president of the court, de- 
spaired of being able to soften by his influence 
the enraged proceedings of his colleagues. And, 
when the process came to an end, " Bilney, de- 
20 



230 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

daring himself what they called an obstinate he- 
retic, was found guilty." Tunstall now proved 
the kindness of his heart. He could not come 
forward in Bilney's favour by a judicial interfer- 
ence, but he laboured to save him by all means 
in his power. " He first set his friends upon him 
to persuade him to recant, and when that would 
not do, he joined his entreaties to theirs ; had pa- 
tience with him day after day, and begged he 
would not oblige him, contrary to his inclinations, 
to treat him with severity." 

The man whom fear was not able to move was 
not proof against the language of affectionate per- 
suasion. " Bilney could not withstand the win- 
ning rhetoric of Tunstall, though he withstood the 
menaces of Warham." He therefore recanted, 
bore a fagot on his shoulders, in the Cathedral 
church of Paul, bareheaded, according to the cus- 
tom of the times, and was dismissed with Latimer 
and the others who had met with milder treatment 
and easier terms." 

The liberated heretics as they were called, re- 
turned directly to Cambridge, where they were 
received with open arms by their friends ; but in 
the midst of this joy, Bilney kept aloof, bearing on 
his countenance the marks of internal suffering 
and incessant gloom. " He received the congratu- 
lations of his officious friends with confusion and 
blushes ;" he had sinned against his Cod, there- 
fore he could neither be gratified nor cheered by 
the affection of any earthly being. In short, his 
mind at length preying on itself, nearly disturbed 
his reason, and his friends dared not allow him to 
be left alone either by night or day. They tried 
to comfort him ; but they tried in vain ; and when 
they endeavoured to sooth him by certain texts in 
Scripture, " it was as though a man would run him 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 231 

through with a sword." In the agonies of his de- 
spair he uttered pathetic and eager accusations of 
his friends, of Tunstall, and above all, of himself. 
At length, his violence having had its course, it 
subsided, by degrees, into a state of profound 
melancholy. In this state he continued from the 
year 1629 to 1631, " reading much, avoiding com- 
pany ; and, in all respects, preserving the severi- 
ty of an ascetic." 

It is interesting to observe in how many differ- 
ent ways our soul's adversary deals with us, in- 
order to allure us to perdition ; and he is never 
so successful as when he can make the proffered 
sin assume the appearance of what is amiable. 
This seems to have been the case with the self- 
judged Briney. To the fear of death, and the 
menaces of Warham, we are told that he opposed 
a resolution and an integrity which could not be 
overcome ; but the gentle entreaties of affection, 
and the tender, persuasive eloquence of Tunstall, 
had power to conquer his love of truth, and make 
the pleadings of conscience vain ; while he proba- 
ly looked upon his yielding as a proof of affection- 
ate gratitude, and that, not to consider the feel- 
ings of those who loved him, would have been of- 
fensive, and ungrateful hardness of heart. 

But, whatever were his motives to sin, that sin 
was indeed visited with remorse as unquestionable 
as it was efficacious ; and it is pleasant to turn 
from the contemplation of Bilney's frailty, to that 
of its exemplary and courted expiation. 

The consequences of this salutary period of sor- 
row and seclusion was, that after having, for some 
time, thrown out hints that he was meditating an 
extraordinary design ; after saying that he was 
almost prepared, that he would shortly go up to 
Jerusalem, and that God must be glorified in him ;■ 



232 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and keeping his friends in painful suspense by this 
mysterious language, he told them at last that he 
was fully determined to expiate his late shameful 
abjuration, that wicked lie against his conscience, 
by death. 

There can be no doubt but that his friends 
again interposed to shake his resolution ; but that 
Being who had lent a gracious ear to the cry of 
his penitence and his agony, " girded up his loins 
for the fight," and enabled him to sacrifice every 
human affection at the foot of the cross, and 
strengthened him to take up that cross, and bear 
it, unfainting, lo the end. He therefore broke 
from all his Cambridge ties, and set out for 
Norfolk, the place of his nativity, and which, 
for that reason, he chose to make the place of his 
death. 

When he arrived there, he preached openly in 
fields, confessing his fault, and preaching public- 
ly that doctrine which he had before abjured, to 
be the very truth, and willed all men to beware 
by him, and never to trust to theivjleshly friends 
in causes of religion ; and so setting forward in his 
journey towards the celestial Jerusalem, he de- 
parted from thence to the Anchresse in Norwich, 
(whom he had converted to Christ) and there 
gave her a New Testament of TindalPs trans- 
lation, and " the obedience of a christian-man ;" 
whereupon he was apprehended, and carried to 
prison. 

Nixe, (the blind Bishop Nixe, as Fox calls him) 
the then Bishop of Norwich, was a man of a fierce, 
inquisitorial spirit, and he lost no time in sending 
up for a writ to burn him. 

In the meanwhile, great pains were taken by 
divers religious persons to re-convert him to what 
his assailants believed to be the truth ; but he 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. c 2So 

having " planted himselfe upon the firm rocke of 
* God's word, was at a point, and so continued to 
the end." 

While Bilney lay in the county gaol, waiting 
the arrival of the writ for his execution, he entire- 
ly recovered from that melancholy which had so 
long oppressed him ; and " like an honest man 
who had long lived under a difficult debt, he be- 
gan to resume his spirits when he thought himself 
in a situation to discharge it." — Gilpin's Lives of 
the Reformers, p. 358. 

" Some of his friends found him taking a hear- 
ty supper the night before his execution, and ex- 
pressing their surprise, he told them he was but 
doing what they had daily examples of in common 
life ; he was only keeping his cottage in repair 
while he continued to inhabit it." The same com- 
posure ran through his whole behaviour, and his 
conversation was more agreeable that evening 
than they had ever remembered it to be. 

Some of his friends put him in mind u that 
though the fire which he should suffer the next 
day should be of great heat unto his body, yet 
the comfort of God's Spirit should coole it to his 
everlasting refreshing." At this word the said 
Thomas Bilney putting his hand toward the flame 
of the candle burning before them, (as he also did 
divers times besides,) and feeling the heat thereof, 
u Oh !" said he, " 1 feel by experience, and have 
knowne it long by philosophic, that fire by God's 
ordinance is naturally hot, but yet I am persuaded 
by God's holy word, and by the experience of 
some spoken of in the same, that in the flame they 
felt no heate, and in the fire they felt no consump- 
tion : and I constantly believe that, howsoever the 
stubble of this my bodie shall be wasted by it, yet 
20* 



234 ILLUSTRATIOKS OF LYIN6. 

my soule and spirit shall be purged thereby ; a 
paine for the time, whereon, notwithstanding, fol- 
loweth joy unspeakable." He then dwelt much 
upon a passage in Isaiah. " Fear not, for I have 
redeemed thee, and called thee by thy name. 
Thou art mine own ; when thou passeth through 
the waters, I will be with thee ; when thou walk- 
est in the fire, it shall not burn thee, and the flame 
shall not kindle upon thee ; for I am the Lord thy 
God, the Holy One of Israel." 

" He was led to the place of execution* without 
the citie gate, called Bishop's gate, in a low valley > 
commonly called the Lollard's pit, under Saint 
Leonard's hill." At the coming forth of the said 



* " In the Lollard's pit, I find that many persons of a sect, 
known by the name of Lollards, in the city of Norwich, were 
thrown, after being burnt, in the year 1424, and for many years 
afterwards ; and thence it was called the Lollard's pit : and 
the following account of the meaning of the term Lollard may 
not be unacceptable. Soon after the commencement of the 14th 
century, the famous sect of the Cellite brethren and sisters 
arose at Antwerp : they were also styled the Alexian brethren 
and sisters, because St. Alexius was their patron ; and they 
were named Cellites, from the cells in which they were accus- 
tomed to live. As the clergy of this age took little carp of the 
sick and the dying, and deserted such as were infected with 
those pestilential disorders which were then very frequent, some 
compassionate and pious persons at Antwerp formed themselves 
into a society for the performance of those religious offices 
which the sacerdotal orders so shamefully neglected. In the 
prosecution of this agreement, they visited and comforted the 
sick, assisted the dying with their prayers and exhortations, 
Cook care of the interment of those who were cut off by the 
plague, and on that account forsaken by the terrified clergy, and 
committed them to the grave with a solemn funeral dirge. H 
was with reference to this last office that the common people 
gave them the name of Lollards. The term Lollhard, or Lull- 
harder as the ancient Germans wrote it, Lolleft, Lullert, is 
compounded of the old German word lullen, lollan, lallen, and 
the well-known termination of hard, with which many of the old 
High Dutch words end. Lollen, or Lullen, signifies to sing with 
a low yoke. 4t is yet used in the same sense among the English, 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 235 

Thotnas Bilney out of the prison doore, one of his 
friends came to him, and prayed him, in God's 
behalf, to be constant, and take his death as pa- 
tiently as he could. Whereuito the said Bilney 
answered with a quiet and mild countenance, " ye 
see when the mariner is entered his ship to saile 
on the troublous sea, how he is for a while toss- 
ed in the billows of the same, but yet in hope that 
he shall come to the quiet haven, he beareth in 
better comfort the perils which he feeleth ; so am 
I now toward this sayling ; and whatsoever 
stormes I shall feele, yet shortly after shall my 
ship be in the haven, as I doubt not thereof, by 
the grace of God, desiring you to helpe me with 
your prayers to the same effect." 



who say lulla sleep, which signifies to sing any one into a slum- 
ber with a sweet indistinct voice. 

'' Lollhard, therefore, is a singer, or one who frequently 
sings. For, as the word beggen, which universally signifies to 
request any thing fervently, is applied to devotional requests, 
or prayers, so the word lolien or lallen is transferred from a 
common to a sacred song, and signifies, in its most limited 
sense, to sing a hymn. Lolhard, therefore,|in the vulgar tongue 
of the ancient Germans, denotes a person who is continual- 
ly praising God with a song, or singing hymns to his honour. 

" And as prayers and hymns are regarded as an external sign 
of piety towards God, those who were more frequently employ- 
ed in singing hymns of praise to God than others, were, in the 
common popular language, called Lollhards." 

" But the priests, and monks, heing invete/ately exasperated 
against these good men, endeavoured to persuade the people 
that innocent and beneficent as the Lollhards appeared to be, 
they were tainted with the most pernicious sentiments of a re- 
ligious kind, and secretly addicted to all sorts of vices ; hence 
the name of Lollard at length became infamous. Thus, by de- 
grees it came to pass, that any person who covered heresies, or 
crimes, under the appearance of piety, was called a Lollard, so 
that this was not a name to denote any one particular sect, but 
wixs formerly common to all persons, and all sects, who were 
supposed to be guilty of impiety towards God, and the church, 
under an external profession of extraordinary piety." — M$G~ 
lane's Eccles. History, p. 355—56. 



236 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

While he kneeled upon a little ledge coming out 
of the stake, upon which he was afterwards to 
stand, that he might be better seen, be made his 
private prayers with such earnest elevation of his 
eyes and hands to heaven, " and in so good quiet 
behaviour, that he seemed not much to consider 
the terror of his death," ending his prayer with 
the 43d psalm, in which he repeated this verse 
thriee, " Enter not into judgment with thy servant, 
O Lord ! for in thy sigut shall no man living be 
justified ;" and so finishing the psalm, he conclud- 
ed. " Nor did that God in whom he trusted for- 
sake him in the hour of his need; while the flames 
raged around him, he held up his hands and 
knocked upon his breast, crying, " Jesus," and 
sometimes " Credo," till he gave up the ghost, 
and his body being withered, bowed downward 
upon the chaine, " while, triumphing over death, 
(to use the words of the poet laureate) u he ren- 
dered up his soul in the fulness of faith, and en- 
tered into his reward." 

'tSo exemplary," says Bloomfield, in his His- 
tory of Norwich, " was Bilney's life and conver- 
sation, that when Nixe, his persecutor, was con- 
stantly told how holy and upright he was, he said 
he feared that he had burnt AbeV 

I have recently visited the Lollard's pit : that 
spot where my interesting martyred countryman 
met his dreadful death. The top of the hill re- 
tains, probably, much the same appearance as it 
had when he perished at its foot ; and, without 
any great exertion of fancy, it would have been 
easy for me to figure to myself the rest of the 
scene, could I have derived sufficient comfort from 
the remembrance of the fortitude with which he 
bore his sufferings, to reconcile me to the con- 
templation of them. Still, it is, I believe, salutary 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 237 

10 visit the places hallowed in the memory, as 
marked by any exhibition of virtuous acts and suf- 
ferings endured for the sake of conscience. To 
the scaffold, and to the stake, on account of their 
religious opinions, it is humbly to be hoped that 
Christians will never again be brought. But all 
persecution, on the score of religion, is, in a de- 
gree, an infliction of martyrdom on the mind and 
on the heart. It matters not that we forbear to 
kill the body of the Christian, if we afflict the soul 
by aught of a persecuting spirit. 

Yet does not our daily experience testify, that 
there is nothing which calls forth petty persecu- 
tions, and the mean warfare of a detracting spirit, 
so much as any marked religious profession ? 

And while such aprofession is assailed, by rid- 
icule on the one hand, by distrust of its motives on 
the other ; while it exposes the serious Christian, 
converted from the errors of former days, to the 
stigma of wild enthusiasm, or of religious hypoc- 
risy ; who shall say that the persecuting spirit of 
the Lauds and the Bonners is not still the spirit 
of the world ? Who shall say to the tried and 
shrinking souls of those who, on account of their 
having made a religious profession, are thus ca- 
lumniated, and thus judged, the time of martyrdom 
is over, and we live in mild, and liberal and truly 
Christian days ? 

Such were the thoughts uppermost in my mind, 
while 1 stood, perhaps, on the very spot where 
Bilney suffered, and where Bilney died ; and 
though I rejoiced to see that the harmless employ- 
ment of the lime burner had succeeded to the 
frightful burning of the human form, I could not 
but sigh as I turned away, while I remembered 
that so much of an intolerant, uncandid spirit still 
prevailed amongst professed Christians, and, that 



236 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

the practice of persecution still existed, though ap- 
plied in a very different manner. I could not but 
think* that many of the present generation might 
do well to visit scenes thus fraught with the recol- 
lection of martyrdom. If it be true that " our 
love of freedom would burn brighter on the plains 
of Marathon," and that our devotion " must glow 
more warmly amidst the ruins of lona, sure am I 
that the places where the martyrs for conscience' 
sake have passed through the portals of fire and 
agony to their God, must assist in bestowing on us 
power to endure with fortitude the mental martyr- 
dom which may, unexpectedly, become our por- 
tion in life ; and by recalling the sufferings ©f 
others, we may, meekly bowing to the hand that 
afflicts us for good, be in time enabled to bear, 
and even to love, our own. 

The last, and third, on my list, is Thomas 
Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, who was 
promoted to that See by the favour of Henry the 
Eighth, and degraded from it in consequence of 
his heretical opinions, by virtue of an order from 
the sovereign pontiff, in the reign of Queen Mary. 
" The ceremony of his degradation," says Gilpin, 
which took place at Oxford, " was performed by 
Thirlby, Bishop of Ely, a man recently converted, 
it should seem, to Catholicism ; who, in Cranmer's 
better days, had been honoured with his particular 
friendship, and owed him many obligations. 

As this man, therefore, had long been so much 
attached to the Archbishop, it was thought proper 
by his new friends that he should give an extraor- 
dinary test of his zeal ; for this reason the ceremo- 
ny of his degradation was committed to him. 
He had undertaken, however, too hard a task. 
The mild benevolence of the primate, which shone 
forth with great dignity, though he stood in mock 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRliTH. 239 

grandeur of canvas robes, struck the old apostate 
to the heart. All the past came throbbing to his 
breast, and a few repentant tears began to trickle 
down the furrows of his aged cheek. The Arch- 
bishop gently exhorted him not to suffer his pri- 
vate to overpower his public affections. At 
length, one by one, the canvas trappings were 
taken off, amidst the taunts and exultations of 
Bonner, bishop of London, who was present at the 
ceremony. 

Thus degraded, he was attired in a plain freize 
gown, the common habit of a yeoman at that peri- 
od, and had what was then called a townsman's 
cap put upon his head. In this garb he was 
carried back to prison, Bonner crying after him, 
" He is now no longer my Lord ! he is now 
no longer my Lord !" — Gilpin's Lives of the Re- 
formers, 

I know not what were Cranmer's feelings at 
these expressions of mean exultation from the 
contemptible Bonner ; but, I trust that he treated 
them, and the ceremony of degradation at the 
time, with the indifference which they merited. 
Perhaps, too, he might utter within himself, this 
serious and important truth, that none of us can 
ever be truly degraded, but by ourselves alone ; 
and this moment of his external humiliation was, 
in the eyes of all whose esteem was worth having, 
one of triumph and honour to the bereaved eccle- 
siastick. But what, alas ! were those which suc- 
ceeded to it? That period, and that alone, was 
the period of his real degradation, when, over- 
come by the flatteries and the kindness of bis real 
and seeming friends, and subdued by the enter- 
tainments given him, the amusements offered him, 
and, allowed to indulge in the " lust of the eye, 
and the pride of life," he was induced to lend a 



240 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

willing ear to the proposal of being reinstated 
in his former dignity, on condition that he 
would conform to the present change of re- 
ligion, and " gratify the queen by being wholly 
a catholic !" 

The adversary of man lured Crantner, as well 
as Bilney, by the unsuspected influence of mild and 
amiable feelings, rather than the instigations of 
fear ; and he who was armed to resist, to the ut- 
most, the rage and malice of his enemies, was 
drawn aside from truth and duty by the sugges- 
tions of false friends. 

After the confinement of a full year in the 
gloomy walls of a prison, his sudden return into 
social intercourse dissipated his firm resolves. 
That love of life returned, which he had hitherto 
conquered ; and when a paper was offered to him 
importing his assent to the tenets of popery, his 
better resolutions gave way, and in an evil hour 
he signed the fatal scroll ! 

Cranmer's recantation was received by the po- 
pish party with joy beyond expression ; but, as all 
they wanted was to blast the reputation of a man, 
whose talents, learning, assd virtue, were of such 
great importance to the cause which he espoused, 
they had no sooner gained what they desired, 
than their thirst for his blood returned, and though 
he was kept in ignorance of the fate which await- 
ed him, a warrant was ordered for his execution 
with all possible expedition. 

But long before the certainty of his approaching 
fate was made known to him, the self-convicted 
culprit sighed for the joy and the serenity which 
usually attend the last days of a martyr for the 
truth which he loves. 

Vainly did his friends throw over his faults the 
balm afforded by those healing words, " the spirit 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 241 

was willing, but the flesh was weak." In his own 
clear judgment he was fully convicted, while his 
days were passed in horror and remorse, and his 
nights in sleepless anguish. 

To persevere in his recantation was an insup- 
portable thought ; but, to retract it was scarcely 
within the verge of possibility ; but he waa allow- 
ed an opportunity of doing so which he did not ex- 
pect, and though death was the means of it, he felt 
thankful that it was afforded him, and deemed his 
life a sacrifice not to be regarded for the attain- 
ment of such an object. 

When Dr. Cole, one of the heads of the popish 
party, came to him on the twentieth of March, the 
evening preceding his intended execution, and in- 
sinuated to him his approaching fate, he spent the 
remaining part of the evening in drawing up a full 
confession of his apostacy, and of his bitter re- 
pentance, wishing to take the best opportunity to 
speak or publish it, which he supposed would be 
afforded him when he was carried to the stake ; 
but, beyond his expectation, a better was provid- 
ed for him. It was intended that he should be 
conveyed immediately from his prison to the place 
of his execution, where a sermon was to be 
preached ; but, as the morning of the appointed 
day was wet and stormy, the ceremony was per- 
formed under cover. 

About nine o'clock, the Lord Williams of 
Thame, attended by the magistrates of Oxford, re- 
ceived him at the prison gate, and conveyed him 
to St. Mary's church, where he found a crowded 
audience awaiting him, and was conducted to an 
elevated' place, in public view, opposite to the 
pulpit. If ever there was a broken and a con- 
trite heart before God and man; if ever there 
21 



242 ILLUSTRATIONS OP LYING. 

was a person humbled in the very depths of his 
soul, from the consciousness of having committed 
sin, and of having deserved the extreme of earth- 
ly shame and earthly suffering ; that man was 
Cranmer! 

He is represented as standing against a pillar, 
pale as the stone against which he leaned. " It 
is doleful," says a popish, but impartial, spectator, 
" to describe his behaviour during the sermon, 
part of which was addressed to him ; his sorrow- 
ful countenance ; his heavy cheer, his face bedew- 
ed with tears ; - sometimes lifting up his eyes to 
heaven in hope ; sometimes casting them down to 
the earth for shame. To be brief, he was an 
image of sorrow. The dolour of his heart burst 
out continually from his eyes in gushes of tears : 
yet he retained ever a quiet and grave behaviour, 
which increased pity in men's hearts, who un- 
feigned ly loved him, hoping that it had been his re- 
pentance for his transgressions." And so it was; 
though not for what many considered his trans- 
gressions ; but it was the deep contrition of a con- 
verted heart, and of a subdued and penitent soul, 
prepared by the depth of human degradation and 
humility, to rise on the wings of angels, and meet 
in another world its beloved and blessed Re- 
deemer. 

The preacher having concluded his sermon, 
turned round to the audience, and desired all who 
were present to join with him in silent prayers for 
the unhappy man before them. A solemn still- 
ness ensued ; every eye and heart were instantly 
lifted up to heaven. Some minutes having been 
passed in this affecting manner, the degraded pri- 
mate, who had also fallen on his knees, arose in 
all the dignity of sorrow, accompanied by con- 
scious penitence and Christian reliance, and thus 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 243 

addressed his audience. " I had myself intended 
to desire your prayers. My desires have been 
anticipated, and 1 return you all that a dying man 
can give, my sincerest thanks. To your prayers 
for me let me add my own ! Good Christian peo* 
pie !" continued he, " my dearly beloved breth- 
ren and sisters in Christ, I beseech you most hear- 
tily, to pray for me to Almighty God, that he will 
forgive me all my sins and offences, which are 
many, without number, and great beyond meas- 
ure. But one thing grieveth my conscience more 
than all the rest ; whereof, God willing, I mean to 
speak hereafter. But, how great and how many 
soever my sinnes he, 1 beseech you to pray God, 
of his mercy, to pardon and forgive them all." 
He then knelt down and offered up a prayer as 
full of pathos as of eloquence ; then he took a pa* 
per from his bosom, and read it aloud, which was 
to the following effect. 

" It is now, my brethren, no time to dissemble 
—I stand upon the verge of life — a vast eternity 
before me — what my fears are, or what my hopes, 
it matters not here to unfold. For one action of 
m}' life, at least, 1 am accountable to the world. 
My late shameful subscription to opinions, which are 
wholly opposite to my real sentiments* Before this 
congregation I solemnly declare, that the fear of 
death alone induced me to this ignominious action 
— that it hath cost me many bitter tears — that, in 
my heart, I totally reject the Pope, and doctrines 
of the church of Rome, and that" 

As he was continuing his speech, the whole as- 
sembly was in an uproar. " Stop the audacious 
heretic," cried Lord Williams of Thame. On 
which several priests and friars, rushing from dif- 
ferent parts of the church, seized, or pulled him 
from his seat, dragged him into the street, and, 



244 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

with indecent precipitation, hurried him to the 
stake, which was already prepared. 

As he stood with all the horrid apparatus of 
death around him, amidst taunts, revilings, and ex- 
ecrations, he alone maintained a dispassionate be- 
haviour. Having discharged his conscience, he 
seemed to feel, even in his awful circumstances, an 
inward satisfaction, to which he had long been a 
stranger. His countenance was not fixed, as be- 
fore, in sorrow on the ground ; but he looked 
round him with eyes full of sweetness and benig- 
nity, as if at peace with all the world. 

Who can contemplate the conduct of Cranmer, 
in the affecting scene that followed, without feeling 
a deep conviction of the intensity of his penitence 
for the degrading lie. of which he had been guilty ! 
and who can fail to think that Cranmer, in his 
proudest days, when the favourite, the friend, the 
counsellor of a king, and bearing the highest ec- 
clesiastical rank in the country, was far inferior 
in real dignity and real consequence to Cranmer, 
when, prostrate in soul before his offended, yet 
pardoning God, but erect and fearless before his 
vindictive enemies, he thrust the hand, with which 
he had signed the lying scroll of recantations, 
into the fast-rising flames, crying out, as he did 
so, " this hand hath offended ! this hand hath 
offended !" 

It is soothing to reflect, that his sufferings were 
quickly over ; for, as the fire rose fiercely round 
him, he was involved in a thick smoke, and it was 
supposed that he died very soon. 

" Surely," says the writer before quoted, " his 
death grieved every one : his friends sorrowed for 
love ; his enemies for pity ; and strangers through 
humanity." 

To us of these latter days, his crime and his 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 245 

penitence afford an awful warning, and an instruc- 
tive example. 

The former proves how vain are talents, learn- 
ing, and even exalted virtues, to preserve us in the 
path of rectitude, unless we are watchful unto 
prayer, and unless, wisely distrustful of our own 
strength, we wholly and confidently lean upon 
" that rock, which is higher than we are." And 
the manner in which he was enabled to declare 
his penitence and contrition for his falsehood and 
apostacy, and to bear the tortures which attended 
on his dying hours, is a soothing and comforting 
evidence, that sinners, who prostrate themselves 
with contrite hearts before the throne of their 
God, and their Redeemer, " he will in no wise 
cast out," but will know his Almighty arm to be 
round about them, " till death is swallowed up in 
victory." 

It is with a degree of fearful ness and awe, that 
I take my fourth, example from one who, relying 
too much on his own human strength, in his hour 
of human trial, was permitted to fall into the com- 
mission of human frailty, and to utter the most de- 
cided and ungrateful of falsehoods ; since he that 
thus erred was no less a person than the apostle 
Peter himself, who, by a thrice-told lie, denied his 
Lord and Master ; but who, by his bitter tearful 
repentance, and by his subsequent faithfulness un- 
to death, redeemed, in the eyes both of his Sa- 
viour and of men, his short-lived frailty, and prov- 
ed himself worthy of that marked confidence in his 
active zeal, which was manifested by our great 
Redeemer, in his parting words. 

The character of Peter affords us a warning, as 
well as an example, while the affectionate reproofs 
of the Saviour, together with the tender encour- 
21* 



246 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING r 

agement, and generous praise, which he bestowed 
upon him, prove to us, in a manner the most cheer- 
ing and indisputable, how merciful are the deal- 
ings of the Almighty with his sinful creatures ; how 
ready he is to overlook our offences, and to dwell 
with complacency on our virtues ; and that " he 
willeth not the death of a sinner, but had rather 
that he should turn from his wickedness and live." 

Self-confidence, and self-righteousness, proceed- 
ing perhaps from his belief in the superior depth 
and strength of his faith in Christ, seem to have 
been the besetting sins of Peter; and that his faith 
was lively and sincere, is sufficiently evidenced by 
his unhesitating reply to the questions of his Lord : 
i; Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God !" 
A reply so satisfactory to the great being whom 
he addressed, that he answered him, saying, 
i; Blessed art thou, Simon Barjona ; for flesh and 
blood have not revealed it unto thee, but my Fa- 
ther which is in Heaven : and I say unto thee, 
that thou art Peter ; and upon this rock will I 
build my church, and the gates of hell shall not 
prevail against it." 

It seems as if Peter became, from this assurance, 
so confident in his own strength, that he neglected 
to follow his master's injunction, " Watch and 
pray, lest ye enter into temptation ;" and therefore 
became an easy victim to the first temptation which 
beset him : for soon after, with surprising confi- 
dence in his own wisdom, we find him rebuking 
his Lord, and asserting, that the things which he 
prophecied concerning himself should not happen 
unto him. On which occasion, the Saviour says, 
addressing* the adversary of Peter's soul, then 
powerful within him, " Get thee behind me, Satan ! 
thou art an offence to me !" His want of implicit 
faith on this occasion was the more remarkable, 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 247 

because he had just before uttered that strong 
avowal of his confidence in Christ, to which I 
have already alluded. 

In an early part of the history of the Gospel we 
read that Peter beholding the miraculous draught 
of fishes, fell on his knees, and exclaimed, in the 
fulness of surprise and admiration, and in the depth 
of conscious sinfulness and humility, " Depart 
from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord !" 

On a subsequent occasion, ever eager as he 
was to give assurances of what he believed to be 
his undoubting faith, we find him saying to the Sa- 
viour, when he had removed the terror of his dis- 
ciples at seeing him walking on the sea, by those 
cheering words, " It is I, be not afraid !" — " Lord ! 
if it be thou, bid me come to thee on the water !" 
— And he walked on the water to come to Jesus ; 
but, when he saw the wind boisterous, he was 
again afraid, and beginning to sink, he cried, say- 
ing, u Lord, save me!" Immediately, Jesus 
stretched forth his hand and caught him, saying 
unto him, "O thou of little faith, wherefore didst 
thou doubt ? n v The first of these facts shows the 
great sensibility of his nature, and his exemplary 
aptitude to acknowledge and admire every proof 
of the power and goodness of his Redeemer : and 
the second is a further corroborating instance of 
his eager confidence in his own courage and be- 
lief, followed by its accustomed falling off in the 
hour of trial. 

His unsubmitted and self-confident spirit shows 
itself again in his declarations, that Christ should 
not wash his feet ; as if he still set human wisdom 
against that of the Redeemer, till, subdued by the 
Saviour's reply, he exclaims, " not my feet only, 
but also my hands and my head." 

The next instance of the mixed character of 



248 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

Peter, and of the solicitude which it excited in our 
Saviour, is exhibited by the following address to 
him) " And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, behold ! 
Satan hath desired to have thee, that he may sift 
thee as wheat ; but I have prayed for thee, (add- 
ed the gracious Jesus,) that thy faith fail not ; and 
when thou art converted, strengthen thy breth- 
ren." Peter replied, in the fulness of self-confi- 
dence, " Lord, 1 am ready to go with thee into 
prison, and unto death !" And he said, " I tell 
thee, Peter, that before the cock crows, thou shalt 
deny me thrice." It does not appear what visible 
effect this humiliating prophecy had on him to 
whom it was addressed, though Matthew says that 
he replied, " though I should die with thee, still I 
will not deny thee ;" but it is probable that, by 
drawing his sword openly in his defence, when 
they came out" with swords and with staves to 
take him," he hoped to convince his Lord of his 
fidelity. But this action was little better than 
one of mere physical courage, the result of sudden 
excitement at the time; and was consistent with 
that want of moral courage, that most difficult 
courage of all, which led him, when the feelings of 
the moment had subsided, to deny his master, and 
to utter the degrading lit of fear. After he had 
thus sinned, the Lord turned and looked upon 
Peter ; and Peter remembered the words of the 
Lord, how he had said unto him, " Before the 
cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. And Peter 
went out, and wept bitterly." 

It seems as if that self-confidence, that blind 
trusting in one's own strength, that tendency which 
we all have to believe, like Hazael, that we can 
never fall into certain sins, and yield to certain 
temptations, was conquered, for a while, in the 
humbled, self-judged, and penitent apostle. Per- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 249 

haps the look of mild reproach which the Saviour 
gave him was long present to his view, and that, 
in moments of subsequent danger to this truth, 
those eyes seemed again to admonish him, and 
those holy lips to utter the salutary and saving 
precept, " watch and pray, lest ye enter into 
temptation." 

Nevertheless, rendered too confident, probably, 
in his own unassisted strength, we find him sinning 
once more in the same way ; namely, from fear of 
man ; for, being convinced that the Mosaic law 
was no longer binding on the conscience, he ate 
and drank freely at Antioch with the Gentiles ; 
but, when certain Jewish converts were sent to 
him from the apostle James, he separated from the 
Gentiles, lest he should incur the censure of the 
Jews ; being thus guilty of a sort of practical lie, 
and setting those Jews, as it proved, a most per- 
nicious example of dissimulation ; for which disin- 
genuous conduct, the apostle Paul publicly and 
justly reproved him before the whole Church. 
But as there is no record of any reply given by 
Peter, it is probable that he bore the rebuke 
meekly ; humbled, no doubt, in spirit, before the 
great Being whom he had again offended ; and 
not only does it seem likely that he met this pub- 
lic humiliation with silent and Christian forbear-- 
ance, but, in his last Epistle, he speaks of Paul, 
" as his beloved brother," generously bearing his 
powerful testimony to the wisdom contained in his 
Epistles, and warning the hearers of Paul against 
rejecting aught in them which from want of learn- 
ing, they may not understand, and "therefore 
wrest them, as the unlearned and unstable do also 
the other Scriptures, to their own destruction." 

The closing scene of this most interesting apos- 
tle's life, we have had no means of contemplating, 



250 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

though the Saviour's last affecting and pathetic 
address to him, in which he prophecies that he 
will die a martyr in his cause, makes one particu- 
larly desirous to procure details of it. 

44 So when they had dined, Jesus saith to Simon 
Peter, 4 Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more 
than these ?' He saith unto him, fc Yea, Lord, 
thou knowest that 1 love thee.' He saith unto him, 
' Feed my lambs !' He saith unto him again the 
second time, ' Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou 
me?' He saith unto him, 'Yea. Lord! thou 
knowest that 1 love thee.' He saith unto him 
i feed my sheep!' He saith unto him the third 
time, 4 Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me ?' 
Peter was grieved because he said unto him the 
third time, Lovest thcu me? and he said unto 
him, 4 Lord, thou knowest that 1 love thee.' Je- 
sus saith unto him, 4 Feed my sheep. Verily, 
verily, I say unto thee, when thou wast young, thou 
girdedstthyself,and walkedst whither thou wouldst; 
but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth 
thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry 
thee whither thou wouldst not.' This spake he, 
signifying by what death he should glorify God ; 
and when he had spoken this he saith unto him, 
follow me !" 

" The case of Peter," says the pious and learn- 
ed Scott, in his Notes to the Gospel of John, " re- 
quired a more particular address than that of the 
other apostles, in order that both he and others 
might derive the greater benefit from his fall and 
his recovery. Our Lord, therefore, asked him by 
his original name, as if he had forfeited that of 
peter by his instability, whether he loved him 
more than these. The latter clause might be in- 
terpreted of his employment and gains as a fisher- 
man, and be considered as a demand whether he 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 251 

loved Jesus above his secular interests ; but Pe- 
ter's answer determines us to another interpreta- 
tion. He had before his fall, in effect, said that he 
loved his Lord more than the other disciples did ; 
for he had boasted that, though all men should for- 
sake him, yet would not he. Jesus now asked 
him whether he would stand to this, and aver that 
he loved him more than the others did. To this 
he answered modestly by saying, " thou knowest 
that I love thee," without professing to love him 
more than the others. Our Lord therefore re- 
newed his appointment to the ministerial and 
apostolical office ; at the same time commanding 
him to feed his lambs, or his little lambs, even the 
least of them, for the word is diminutive : this inti- 
mated to him that his late experience of his own 
weakness ought to render him peculiarly conde- 
scending, complaisant, tender, and attentive to the 
meanest and feeblest believers. As Peter had 
thrice denied Christ, so he was pleased to repeat 
the same question a third time : this grieved Pe- 
ter, as it reminded him that he had given sufficient 
cause for being thus repeatedly questioned con- 
cerning the sincerity of his love to his Lord. 
Conscious, however, of his integrity, he more sol- 
emnly appealed to Christ, as knowing all things, 
even the secrets of his heart, that be knew he 
loved him with cordial affection, notwithstanding 
the inconsistency of his late behaviour. Our 
Lord thus tacitly allowed the truth of his profes- 
sion, and renewed his charge to him to feed his 
sheep." 

u Peter," continues the commentator, " had 
earnestly professed his readiness to die with 
Christ, yet had shamefully failed when put to the 
trial ; but our Lord next assured him that he 
would at length be called on to perform that en- 



252 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

gagement, and signified the death by which he 
would, as a martyr for his "truth, glorify God." 
No doubt that this information, however awful, 
was gratefully received by the devoted, ardent, 
though, at times, the unstable, follower of his be- 
loved Master ; as it proved the Saviour's confi- 
dence in him, notwithstanding all his errors. 

There was, indeed, an energy of character in 
Peter, which fitted him to be an apostle and a 
martyr. He was the questioning, the observing, 
the conversing, disciple. The others were proba- 
bly withheld by timidity from talking with their 
Lord, and putting frequent questions to him ; but 
Peter was the willing spokesman on all occasions; 
and to him we owe that impressive lesson afforded 
us by the Saviour's reply, when asked by him 
how often he was to forgive an offending brother, 
i; I say not unto thee until seven times, but unto 
seventy times seven." 

But, whether we contemplate Peter as an exam- 
ple, or as a warning, in the early part of his re- 
ligious career, it is cheering and instructive, in- 
deed, to acquaint ourselves with him in his writ- 
ings, when he approached the painful and awful 
close of it. When, having been enabled to fight a 
good fight, in fulfilment of his blessed Lord's 
prayer, that '■ his faith might not fail ;" and hav- 
ing been " converted himself," and having 
strengthened his brethren, he addressed his last 
awfully impressive Epistle to his Christian breth- 
ren, before he himself was summoned to that aw- 
ful trial, after which he was to receive the end of 
" his faith," even " the salvation of his soul !" 
Who can read, without trembling; awe, his elo- 
quent description of the day of judgment ; " that 
day," which, as he says, u will come like a thief 
in the night, in the which the heavens shall pass 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 253 

away with a great noise, and the elements shall 
melt with fervent heat; and the works that are 
therein shall be burned up," while he adds this 
impressive lesson, " seeing then that all things 
shall be dissolved, what manner of persons ought 
ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness ?" 
And who can contemplate, without affectionate 
admiration, the undoubting, but unfearing, cer- 
tainty with which he speaks of his approaching 
death, as foretold by our Lord ; w knowing," 
said he, u that shortly I must put off this my 
tabernacle, even as our Lord Jesus Christ has 
showed us !" 

Soon after he had thus written, it is probable 
that he repaired to the expected scene of his suf- 
fering, and met his doom — met it. undoubtedly, as 
became one taught by experience to his own re- 
curring weakness, admonished often by the re- 
membrance of that eye, which had once beamed 
in mild reproof upon him ; but which, I doubt not, 
he beheld in the hour of his last trial and dying 
agonies, fixed upon him with tender encourage- 
ment and approving love ; while, in his closing 
ear, seemed once again to sound the welcome 
promise to the devoted follower of the cross, 
" well done, good and faithful servant, enter thou 
into the joy of thy Lord." 

We, of these latter days, can see the founder of 
our religion only in the record of his word, and 
hear him only in his ever-enduring precepts ; but, 
though we hear him not externally with our ears, 
he still speaks in the heart of us all, if we will but 
listen to his purifying voice ; and though the look 
of his reproachful eye can be beheld by us only 
with our mental vision, still, that eye is continually 
over us ; and when, like the apostle, we are tempt- 
22 



254 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ed to feel too great security in our own strength, 
and to neglect to implore the assistance which 
comet h from above, let us recal the look which 
Jesus gave the offending Peter, and remember that 
the same eye, although unseen, is watching and 
regarding us still. 

Oh ! could we ever lie, even upon what are call- 
ed trifling occasions, if we once believed the cer- 
tain, however disregarded, truth, that the Lord 
takes cognizance of every species of falsehood, 
and that the eye, which looked the apostle into 
shame and agonizing contrition, beholds our lying 
lips with the same indignation with which it re- 
proved him, reminding us that " all liars shall have 
their part in the lake that burneth with fire and 
brimstone," and that without the city of life is 
" whosoever loveth and maketh a lie." 



CHAPTER XVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

I shall not give many individual instances of 
those whom even the fear of death has not been 
able to terrify into falsehood, because they were 
supported in their integrity by the fear of God ; 
but such facts are on record. The history of the 
primitive Christians contains many examples both 
of men and women whom neither threats nor 
bribes could induce for s moment to withhold or 
falsify the truth, or to conceal their newly-embrac- 
ed opinions, though certain that torture and death 
would be the consequence ; fearless and determin- 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 255 

td beings, who, though their rulers, averse to pun- 
ish them, would gladly have allowed their change 
to pass unnoticed, persisted, like the prophet Dan- 
iel, openly to display the faith that was in them, 
exclaiming at every interrogatory, and in the 
midst of tortures and of death, " we are Chris- 
tians ; we are Christians !" Some martyrs of 
more modern days, Catholics, as well as Protes- 
tants, have borne the same unshaken testimony to 
what they believed to be religious truth ; but La- 
timer, more especially, was so famous among the 
latter, not only for the pureness of his life, but for 
the sincerity and goodness of his evangelical doc- 
trine -, (which, since the beginning of his preach- 
ing, had, in all points been conformable to the 
teaching of Christ and of his apostles,) that the 
very adversaries of God's truth, with all their 
menacing words and cruel imprisonment, could not 
withdraw him from it. But, whatsoever he had 
once preached, he valiantly defended the same be- 
fore the world, without fear of any mortal creature, 
although of ever so great power and high author- 
ity; wishing and minding rather to suffer not only 
loss of worldly possessions, but of life, than that 
the glory of God, and the truth of Christ's Gospel 
should is any point be obscured or defaced through 
him," Thus this eminent person exhibited a strik- 
ing contrast to that fear of man, which is the root 
of m11 lying, and all dissimulation ; that mean, 
grovelling, and pernicious fear, which every day 
is leading us either to disguise or withhold our real 
opinion ; if nat, to be absolutely guilty of uttering 
falsehood, and which induces us but too often, to 
remain silent, and ineffective, even when the op- 
pressed and the insulted require us to speak in 
their defence, and when the cause of truth, and of 
righteousness, is injured by our silence. The ear- 



156 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

ly Friends were exemplary instances of the pow- 
er of faith to lift the Christian above all fear of 
man ; and not only George Fox himself, but 
many of his humblest followers, were known to 
be persons M who would rather have died than spok- 
en a lie." 

There was one female Friend amongst others, 
of the name of Mary Dyar, who, after undergoing 
some persecution for the sake of her religious 
tenets at Boston, in America, was led to the gal- 
lows between two young men, condemned, like 
herself, to suffer for conscience 1 sake ; but, hav- 
ing seen them executed, she was repriexed, carri- 
ed back to prison, and then, being discharged, 
was permitted to go to another part of the coun- 
try ; but, apprehending it to be her duty to re« 
turn to " the bloody town of Boston," she was 
summoned before the general court. On her ap- 
pearance there, the governor, John Endicott, 
said, " Are you the same Mary Dyar that was 
here before?" And it seems he zvas preparing 
an evasion for her ; there having been another 
of that name returned from Old England. But 
she was so far from disguising the truth, that she 
answered undauntedly, ' k I am the same Mary 
Dyar that was here the last general court" The 
consequence was immediate imprisonment ; and 
soon after, death. 

But the following narrative, which, like the pre- 
ceding one, is recorded in Sewell's History of the 
people called Quakers, bears so directly on the 
point in question, that I am tempted to give it to my 
readers in all its details. 

" About the fore part of this year, if I mistake 
not, there happened a case at Edmond's-Bury, 
which 1 cannot well pass by in silence ; viz. a cer- 
tain young woman was committed to prison for 



RELIGION THE BASIS OP TRUTH. 257 

child-murder. Whilst she was in jail, it is said, 
William Bennet, a prisoner for conscience' sake, 
came to her, and in discourse asked her whether, 
during the course of her life, she had not many 
times transgressed against her conscience ? and 
whether she had not often thereupon felt secret 
checks and inward reproofs, and been troubled in 
her mind because of the evil committed ; and this 
he did in such a convincing way, that she not only 
assented to what he laid before her, but his dis- 
course so reached her heart, that she came clear- 
ly to see, that if she had not been so stubborn and 
disobedient to those inward reproofs, in all proba- 
bility she would not have come to such a miser- 
able fall as she now had ; for man, not desiring 
the knowledge of God's ways, and departing from 
him, is left helpless, and cannot keep himself from 
evil, though it may be such as formerly he would 
have abhorred in the highest degree, and have 
said with Hazael, "what! is thy servant a dog, 
that he should do this great thing?" W. Bennet 
thus opening matters to her, did, by his wholesome 
admonition, so work upon her mind, that she, who 
never had conversed with the Quakers, and was 
altogether ignorant of their doctrine, now came to 
apprehend that it was the grace of God that 
brings salvation, which she so often had withstood, 
and that this grace had not yet quite forsaken her, 
but now made her sensible of the greatness of her 
transgression. This consideration wrought so pow- 
erfully, that, from a most grievous sinner, she be- 
came a true penitent ; and with hearty sorrow she 
cried unto the Lord, " that it might please him not 
to hide his countenance." And continuing in this 
state of humiliation and sincere repentance, and 
persevering in supplication, she felt, in time, ease : 
22* 



25S ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

and giving heed to the exhortations of the said 
Betinei, she obtained, at length, to a sure hope of 
forgiveness by the precious blood of the immacu- 
late Lamb, who died for the sins of the world. 
Of this she gave manifest proofs at her trial before 
Judge Matthew Hale, who, having heard how pen- 
itent she was, would fain have spared her ; she 
being asked, according to the form, u guilty or not 
guilty T\ readily answered, , M guilty." This as- 
tonished the judge, and therefore he told her that 
she seemed not duly to consider what she said, 
since it could not well be believed that such a one 
as she, who, it may be, inconsiderately, and rough- 
ly handled her child, should have killed it " wil- 
fully and designedly." Here the judge opened a 
back door for her to avoid the punishment of 
death. But now the fear of God had got so much 
room in her heart, that no tampering would do ; 
no fig-leaves could serve her for a cover ; for she 
now knew that this would have been adding sin to 
sin, and to cover herself with a covering, but not 
of God's spirit ; and therefore she plainly signifi- 
ed to the court that indeed she had committed the 
mischievous act intended^, thereby to hide her 
shame; and that having sinned thus grievously, 
and being affected now with true repentance, she 
could by no means excuse herself, but was willing 
to undergo the punishment the law required ; and, 
therefore, she could but acknowledge herself guil- 
ty, since otherwise how could she expect forgive- 
ness from the Lord ?" This undisguised and free 
confession being spoken with a serious counte- 
nance, did so affect the judge that, tears trickling 
down his cheeks, he sorrowfully said, " Woman ! 
such a case as this I never met with before. Per- 
haps you, who are but young, and speak so pious- 
ly, as being struck to the heart with repentance. 



RELIGION THE BASIS OF TRUTH. 259 

might yet do much good in the world ; but now 
you force me so that ex officio, I must pronounce 
sentence of death against you, since you will ad- 
mit of no excuse." Standing to what she had said 
the judge pronounced the sentence of death ; and 
when, afterward, she came to the place of execu- 
tion, she made a pathetical speech to the people, 
exhorting the spectators, especially those of the 
young, " to have the fear of God before their 
eyes ; to give heed to his secret reproofs for evil, 
and so not to grieve and resist the good of the 
Lord, which she herself not having timely minded, 
it had made her run on in evil, and thus proceed- 
ing from wickedness to wickedness, it had brought 
her to this dismal exit. But, since she firmly 
trusted to God's infinite mercy, nay, surely believ- 
ed her sins, though of a bloody dye, to be washed 
off by the pure blood of Christ, she could content- 
edly depart this life." Thus she preached at the 
gallows the doctrine of the Quakers, and gave 
heart-melting proofs that her immortal soul was to 
enter into Paradise, as well as anciently that of the 
thief on the cross." 

The preceding chapter contains three instances 
of martyrdom, undergone for the sake of religious 
truth, and attended with that animating publicity 
which is usual on such occasions, particularly 
when the sufferers are persons of a certain rank 
and eminence in society. 

But, she who died, as narrated in the story 
given above, for the cause of spontaneous truth, 
and willingly resigned her life, rather than be 
guilty of a lie to save it, though that lie was con- 
sidered by the law of the country, and by the 
world at large, to be no lie at all ; this bright ex- 
ample of what a true and lively faith can do for 
us in an hour of strong temptation, was not only 



260 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

an humble, guilty woman, but a nameless one al- 
so. She was an obscure, friendless, individual, 
whose name on earth seems to be nowhere re- 
corded ; and probably, no strong interest was felt 
for her disastrous death, except by the preacher 
who converted her, and by the judge who con- 
demned her. This afflicted person was also well 
aware that the courage with which she met her 
fate, and died rather than utter a falsehood, would 
not be cheered and honoured by an anxious popu- 
lace, or by the tearful farewells of mourning, but 
admiring, friends ; she also knew that her honest 
avowal would brand her with the odious guilt of 
murdering her child, and yet she persevered in 
her adherence to the truth ! Therefore, I hum- 
bly trust that, however inferior she may appear, 
in the eyes of her fellow-mortals, to martyrs of a 
loftier and more important description, this willing 
victim of what she thought her duty, offered as 
acceptable a sacrifice as theirs, in the eyes of her 
Judge and her Redeemer. 

No doubt, as I before observed, the history of 
both public and private life may afford many 
more examples of equal reverence for truth, deriv- 
ed from religious motives; but, as the foregoing in- 
stance was more immediately before me, I was in- 
duced to give it as an apt illustration of the pre- 
cept which 1 wish to enforce. 

The few, and not the many, are called upon to 
earn the honours of public martyrdom, and to 
shine like stars in the firmament of distant days ; 
and, in like manner, few of us are exposed to the 
danger of telling great and wicked falsehoods. 
But, as it is more difficult, perhaps, to bear with 
fortitude the little daily trials of life, than great ca- 
lamities, because we summon up all our spiritual 
and moral strength to resist the latter, but often do 



CONCLUSION. 261 

not feel it to be a necessary duty to bear 
the former with meekness and resignation ; 
so is it more difficult to overcome and resist temp- 
tations to every-day lying and deceit, than to 
falsehoods of a worse description ; since, while 
these little lies often steal on us unawares, and 
take us unprepared, we know them to be so trivial, 
that they escape notice, and to be so tolerated, that 
even, if detected, they will not incur reproof. Still, 
I must again and again repeat the burden of my 
song, the moral result, which, however weakly I 
may have performed my task, I have laboured in- 
cessantly, through the whole of my work, to draw, 
and to illustrate ; namely, that this little tolerated 
lying, as well as great and reprobated falsehood, is 
wholly inconsistent with the character of a serious 
Christian, and sinful in the eyes of the God of 
Truth; that, in the daily recurring temptation to 
deceive, our only security is to lift up our soul, in 
secret supplication, to be preserved faithful in the 
hour of danger, and always to remember, without 
any qualification of the monitory words, that " ly- 
ing lips are an abomination to the Lord." 



CONCLUSION. 

I shall now give a summary of the didactic part 
of these observations on lying, and the principles 
which, with much fearlessness and humility, 1 have 
ventured to lay down. 

I have stated, that if there be no other true defi- 
nition of lying than an intention to deceive, with- 
holding the truth, with such an intention, partakes 



262 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LTIN©. 

as much of the nature of falsehood as direct lies 5 
and that, therefore, lies are of two natures, active 
and passive ; or, in other words, direct and in- 
direct. 

That a passive lie is equally as irreconcilable 
to moral principles as an active one. 

That the lies of vanity are of an active and 
passive nature ; and that, though we are tempted 
to be guilty of the former, our temptations to the 
latter are stronger still. 

That many, who would shrink with moral dis- 
gust from committing the latter species of false- 
hood, are apt to remain silent when their vanity is 
gratified, without any overt act of deceit on their 
part; and are contented to let the flattering rep- 
resentation remain uncontradicted. 

That this disingenuous passiveness belongs to 
that common species of falsehood, withholding the 
truth. 

That lying is a common vice, and the habit of 
it so insensibly acquired, that many persons violate 
the truth, without being conscious that it is a sin 
to do so, and even look on dexterity in white ly- 
ing, as it is called, as a thing to be proud of; 
but, that it were well to consider whether, if we 
allow ourselves liberty to lie on trivial occa- 
sions, we do not weaken our power to resist temp- 
tation to utter falsehoods which may be danger- 
ous, in their results, to our own well being, and 
that of others. 

That, if we allow ourselves to violate the truth, 
that is, deceive for any purpose whatever, who 
can say where this self-indulgence will submit to 
be bounded ? 

That those who learn to resist the daily tempta- 
tion to tell what are deemed trivial and innocent 



CONCLUSION. 263 

lies, will be better able to withstand allurements to 
serious and important deviations from truth. 

That the lies of flattery are, generally speak- 
ing, not only unprincipled, but offensive. 

That there are few persons with whom it is so 
difficult to keep up the relations of peace and ami- 
ty as flatterers by system and habit. 

That the view taken by the flatterer of the 
penetration of the flattered is often erroneous. 
That the really intelligent are usually aware to 
how much praise and admiration they are en- 
titled, be it encomium on their personal or mental 
qualifications. 

That the lie of fear springs from the want of 
moral courage ; and that, as this defect is by no 
means confined to any class or age, the result of it, 
that fear of man, which prompts to the lie of fear, 
must be universal. 

That some lies, which are thought to be lies of 
benevolence, are not so in reality, but may be re- 
solved into lies of fear, being occasioned by a 
dread of losing favour by speaking the truth, and 
not by real kindness of heart. ' 

That the daily lying and deceit tolerated in so- 
ciety, and which are generally declared necessary 
to preserve good- will, and avoid offence to the 
self love of others, are the result of false, not real 
benevolence, — for that those, who practise it the 
most to their acquaintances when present, are only 
too apt to make detracting observations on them 
when they are out of sight. 

That true benevolence would ensure, not de- 
stroy, the existence of sincerity, as those who cul- 
tivate the benevolent affections always see the good 
qualities of their acquaintance in the strongest 
light, and throw their defects into shade ; that, 
consequently, they need not shrink from speaking 



264 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

truth on all occasions. That the kindness which 
prompts to erroneous conduct cannot long contin- 
ue to bear even a remote connection with real be- 
nevolence ; that unprincipled benevolence soon de- 
generates into malevolence. 

That, if those w ho possess good sense would 
use it as zealously to remove obstacles in the way 
of spontaneous truth, as they do to justify them- 
selves in the practice of falsehood, (he difficulty 
of always speaking the truth would in time vanish. 

That the lie of convenience —namely, the or- 
der to servants (o say, " not at home," that is, 
teaching them to lie for our convenience, is at the 
same time teaching them to lie for their own, 
whenever the temptation offers. 

That those masters and unstresses who show 
their domesticl<s, that they do not themselves val- 
ue truth, and thus render the conseiences of the 
latter callous to its requirings, forfeit their right, 
and lose their chance, of having servants worthy 
of confidence, degrade their own characters also 
in their opinions, and incur an wful guilt by en- 
dangering their servant's well-being here, and 
hereafter. 

That husbands who employ their wives, and 
wives their husbands, and that parents who em- 
ploy their children to utter for them the lies of 
convenience, have no right to be angry, or sur- 
prised if their wedded or parental confidence be 
afterwards painfully abused, since they have 
taught their families the habit of deceit, by en- 
couraging them in the practice of what they call 
innocent white lying* 

The lies of interest are sometimes more ex- 
cusable, and less offensive than others, but are dis- 
gusting when told by those whom conscious inde- 



CONCLUSION. 265 

pendente preserves from any strong temptation to 
violate truth. 

That lies of first-rate malignity, namely, lies 
intended wilfully to destroy the reputation of men 
and women, are less frequent than falsehoods of 
any other description, because the arm of the law 
defends reputations. 

That, notwithstanding, there are many persons, 
worn both in body and mind by the consciousness 
of being the object of calumnies and suspicions 
which they have not power to combat, who steal 
broken-hearted into their graves, thankful for the 
summons of death, and hoping to find refuge from 
the injustice of their fellow-creatures in the bosom 
of their Saviour. 

That against lies of second-rate malignity the 
law holds out no protection. 

That they spring from the spirit of detraction, 
and cannot be exceeded in base and petty 
treachery. 

That lies of real benevolence, though the most 
amiable and respectable of all lies, are, not- 
withstanding, objectionable, and ought not to be 
told. 

That, to deceive the sick and the dying, is a de- 
reliction of principle which not even benevolence 
can excuse; since, who shall venture to assert that 
a deliberate and wilful falsehood is justifiable ? 

That, withholding the truth with regard to the 
character of a servant, alias, the passive lie of be- 
nevolence, is a pernicious and reprehensible cus- 
tom ; that, if benevolent to the hired, it is malev- 
olent to the Wring, and may be fatal to the per- 
son so favoured. 

That the masters and mistresses who thus per- 
form what they call a benevolent action, at the ex- 
23 



266 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

pense of sincerity, often, no doubt, find their sin 
visited on their own heads; because, if servants 
know that, owing to the lax morality of their em- 
ployers, their faults will not receive their proper 
punishment, that is, disclosure, when they are 
turned away,— one of the most powerful motives 
to behave well is removed, since those are not 
likely to abstain from sin, who are sure that they 
shall sin with impunity. 

That it would be real benevolence to tell, and 
not to withhold, the whole truth on such occasions ; 
because those who hire servants so erroneously 
befriended, may, from ignorance of their besetting 
sins, put temptations in their way to repeat their 
fault ; and may thereby expose them to incur, some 
day or other, the severest penalty of the law. 

That it is wrong, however benevolently meant, 
to conceal the whole extent of a calamity from an 
afflicted person, not only because it shows a dis- 
trust of the wisdom of the Deity, and implies that 
he is not a fit judge of the proper degree of trial to 
be inflicted on his creatures, but, because it is a 
withholding of the truth with an intention to deceive, 
and that such a practice is not only wrong, but in- 
expedient ; as we may thereby stand between the 
sufferer and the consolation which might have 
been afforded in some cases by the very nature 
and intensity of the blow inflicted ; and lastly, be- 
cause such concealment is seldom ultimately suc- 
cessful, since the truth comes out, usually in the 
end, when the sufferer is not so well able to bear it. 

That lies of wantonness, are lies which are of- 
ten told for no other motive than to show the ut- 
terpr's tot*l contempt for truth ; and that there is 
no hope for the amendment of such persons, since 
they thus sin from a depraved fondness for speak- 
ing, and inventing falsehood. 



CONCLUSION. 267 

That dress affords good illustrations of practi- 
cal lies. 

That if false hair, false bloon^ false eyebrows, 
and other artificial aids to the appearance, are so 
well contrived, that they seem palpably intended 
to pass for natural beauties, then do these aids of 
dress partake of the vicious nature of other lying. 

That the medical man who desires his servant 
to call him out of church, or from a party, when 
he is not wanted, in order to give him the appear- 
ance of the great business which he has not ; and 
the a :thor who makes his publisher put second 
and third edition before a work of which, perhaps 
even the first is not wholly sold, are also guilty of 
practical lies 

That the practical lies most fatal to others, are 
those acted by men uho, when in the gulf of bank- 
ruptcy, launch out into increased splendour of liv- 
ing, in order to obtain further credit, by inducing 
an opinion that they are rich. 

That another pernicious practical lie is acted by 
boj 7 s and girls at school, who employ their school- 
fellows to do exercises for them ; or who them- 
selves do them for others; that, by this means, 
children become acquainted with the practice of 
deceit as soon as they enter a public school ; and 
thus is counteracted the effect of those principles 
of spontaneous truth which they may have learnt 
at home. 

That lying is mischievous and impolitic, because 
it destroys confidence, that best charm and only 
cement of society ; and that it is almost impossi- 
ble to believe our acquaintances, or expect to be 
believed ourselves, when we or they have once 
been detected in falsehood. 

That speaking the truth does not imply a neces- 
sity to wound the feelings of any one. That of- 



268 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

fensive, or home truths, should never be volunteer- 
ed, though one lays it down as a principle, that 
truth must be spoken when called for. 

That often ti;e temporary wound given to us on 
principle, to the sell-love of others, may be attend- 
ed with lasting benefit to them, and benevolence 
in reality be not wounded, but gratified ;, $ince the 
truly benevolent can always find a balm for the 
wounds which duty obliges them to inflict. 

That, were the utterance of spontaneous truth to 
become a general principle of action in society, 
no one would dare to put such questions concern- 
ing their defects as I have enumerated ; therefore 
the difficulty of always speaking truth would be 
almost annihilated. 

That those who, in the presence of their ac- 
quaintance, make mortifying observations on their 
personal defects, or wound their self-love in any 
other way, are not actuated by the love of truth, 
but that their sincerity is the result of coarseness of 
mind, and of the mean wish to inflict pain. 

That all human beings are. in their closets, con- 
vinced of the importance of truth to the interests 
of society, though few, comparatively, think the 
practice binding on them, when acting in the busy 
scene of the world. 

That we must wonder still less at the little shame 
attached to white lying, when we see it sanctioned 
in the highest assemblies in the kingdom. 

That, in the heat of political debate, in either 
house of parliament, offence is given and received, 
and the unavoidable consequence is thought to be 
apology, or duel ; that the necessity of either is 
obviated only by lying, the offender being at 
length induced to declare that by black he did not 
mean black, but white, and the offended says, 
" enough — I am satisfied." 



CONCLUSION. 269 

That the supposed necessity of thus making 
apologies, in the language of falsehood, is much to 
be deplored ; and that the language of truth might 
be used with equal effect. 

That, if the offender and offended were married 
men, the former might declare, that he would not, 
for any worldly consideration, run the risk of mak- 
ing his own wife a widow, and his own children 
fatherless, nor those of any other man ; and that 
he was also withheld by obedience to the divine 
command, " Thou shalt not kill." 

That, though there might be many heroes pres- 
ent on such an occasion, whose heads were bowed 
down with the weight of their laurels, the man 
who could thus speak and act against the bloody 
custom of the world would be a greater hero, in 
the best sense of the word, as he would be made 
superior to the fear of man, by fear of God, 

That some persons say, that they have lied so 
as to deceive, with an air of complacency, as if 
vain of their deceptive art, adding " but it was 
only a white lie, you know ;" as if, therefore, it 
was no lie at all. 

That it is common to hear even the pious and 
the moral assert that deviation from truth, or a 
withholding of the truth, is sometimes absolutely 
necessary. 

That persons who thus reason, if asked whether, 
while repeating the commandment, " thou shalt 
not steal," they may, nevertheless, pilfer in some 
small degnee, would, undoubtedly, answer in the 
negative; yet, that white lying is as much an in- 
fringement of the moral law as little pilfering is of 
the comma ndraent not to steal. 

That 1 have thought it right to give extracts from 
23* 



270 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

many powerful writers, in corroboration of my own 
opinion on the subjects of-lying. 

That, if asked why I have taken so much trouble 
to prove what no one ever doubted, I reply, that I 
have done so in order to force on the attention of 
my readers that not one of these writers mentions 
any allowed exception to the general rule of truth; 
and it seems to be their opinion that no mental re- 
servation is to be permitted on special occasions. 

That the principle of truth is an immutable princi- 
ple, or it is of no use as a guard to morals. 

That it is earnestly to be hoped and desired, 
that the day may come, when it shall be as dis- 
honourable to commit the slightest breach of ve- 
racity as to pass counterfeit shillings. 

That Dr. Haw kes worth is wrong in saying that 
the liar is universally abandoned and despised ; 
for, although we dismiss the servant whose habit 
of lying offends us, we never refuse to associate 
with the liar of rank and opulence. 

That, though, as he says, the imputation of a lie 
is an insult for which life only can atone, the man 
who would thus fatally resent it does not even re- 
prove the lie of convenience in his wife or child, and 
is often guilty of it himself. 

That the lying order given to a servant entails 
consequences of a mischievous nature ; that it low- 
ers the standard of truth in the person who receives 
it, lowers the persons who give it, and deprives the 
latter of their best claim to their servants' respect ; 
namely, a conviction of their moral superiority. 

That the account given, by Boswell, of John- 
son's regard to truth, furnishes us with a better ar- 
gument for it than is afforded by the best moral 
fictions. 

That, if Johnson could always speak the truth, 



CONCLUSION. 271 

others can do the same ; as it does not require his 
force of intellect to enable us to be sincere. 

That, if it be asked what would be gained by 
always speaking the truth ; I answer, that the in- 
dividuals so speaking would acquire the involunta- 
ry confidence and reverence of their fellow- 
creatures. 

That the consciousness of truth and ingenuous- 
ness gives a radiance to the countenance, and a 
charm to the manner, which no other quality of 
mind can equally bestow. 

That the contrast to this picture must be famil- 
iar to the memory of every one. 

That it is a delightful sensation to feel and in- 
spire confidence. 

That it is delightful to know that we have friends 
on whom we can always rely for honest counsel 
and ingenuous reproof. 

That it is an ambition worthy of thinking beings 
to endeavour to qualify ourselves, and those whom 
we love, to be such friends as these. 

That if each individual family would resolve to 
avoid every species of falsehood, whether author- 
ized by custom or not, the example would soon 
spread. 

That nothing is impossible to zeal and enterprize. 

That there is a river which, if suffered to flow 
over the impurities of falsehood and dissimulation 
in the world, is powerful enough to wash them all 
away ; since it flows from the fountain of ever- 
living WATERS. 

That the powerful writers, from whom 1 have 
given extracts, have treated the subject of truth as 
moralists only ; and have, therefore, kept out of 
sight the only sure motive to resist the temptation 
to lie ; namely, obedience to the divine will. 

That the moral man may utter spontaneous truth 



2?2 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

pn all occasions ; but, the religious man, if he acts 
consistently must do so. 

That, both the Old and New Testament abound 
in facts and texts to prove how odious the sin of ly- 
ing is in the sight of the Almighty ; as 1 have 
shown in several quotations from Scripture to 
that effect. 

That as no person has a right to resent being 
called a sloven who goes about in a stained gar- 
ment, though that stain be a single one ; so that 
person who indulges in any one species of lie can- 
not declare, with justice, that he deserves not the 
name of liar. 

That the all-powerful Being who has said " as 
is our day, our strength shall be," still lives to 
hear the prayer of all who call on Him, and in 
the hour of temptation will " strengthen them out 
of Zion." 

That, in all other times of danger, the believer 
supplicates for help, but few persons think of pray- 
ing to be preserved from little lying, though the 
Lord has not revealed to us what species of lying 
he tolerates, and what he reproves. 

That, though I am sure it is not impossible to 
speak the truth always, when persons are power- 
fully influenced by religious motives, 1 admit the 
extreme difficulty of it, and have given the con- 
duct of some distinguished religious characters as 
illustrations of the difficulty. 

That other instances have been stated, in order 
to exemplify the power of religious motives on 
some minds to induce undaunted utterance of the 
truth, even when death was the sure consequence. 
That temptations to little lying are far more 
common than temptations to great and important 
lies ; that they are far mere difficult to resist, be- 
cause they come upon us daily and unawares, and 



CONCLUSION. 273 

because we know that we may utler white lies 
without fear of detection ; and, if detected, with- 
out any risk of being disgraced by them in the 
eyes of others. 

That, notwithstanding, they are equally, with 
great lies, contrary to the will of God, and that it 
is necessary to be " watchful unto prayer," when 
we are tempted to commit them. 

1 conclude this summary by again conjuring my 
readers to reflect that there is no moral difficulty, 
however great, which courage, zeal, and perse- 
verance, will not enable them to overcome ; and, 
never, probably, was there a period, in the history 
of man, when those qualities seemed more suc- 
cessfully called into action than at the present 
moment. 

Never was there a better opportunity of estab- 
lishing general society on the principles of truth, 
than that now afforded by the enlightened plan of 
educating the infant population of these United 
Kingdoms. 

There is one common ground on which the most 
sceptical philosopher, and the most serious Chris- 
tian meet, and cordially agree ; namely, on the 
doctrines of the omnipotence of motives. They dif- 
fer only on the nature of the motives to be applied 
to human actions ; the one approving of moral 
motives alone, the other advocating the propriety 
of giving religious ones. 

But. those motives only can be made to act up- 
on the infant mind which it is able to understand ; 
and they are, chiefly, the hope of reward for obe- 
dience, and the dread of punishment for disobedi- 
ence. But, these motives are all-sufficient ; there- 
fore, even at the earliest period of life, a love of 
truth and an abhorrence of lying may be inculcat- 
ed with the greatest success. Moreover, habit ? 



274 ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING. 

that best of friends, or worst of foes, according to 
the direction given to its power, may form an im- 
pregpable barrier to defend the pupils thus train- 
ed, against the allurements of falsehood. 

Children taught to tell the truth from the motive 
of fear and of hope, and from the force of habit, 
will be so well prepared to admit and profit by the 
highest motives to do so, as soon as they can be 
unfolded to their minds, that, when they are re- 
moved to other schools, as they advance in life, 
they will be found to abhor every description of 
lying and deceit ; and thus the cause of spontane- 
ous truth and general education will go forward, 
progressing and prospering together. 

Nor can the mere moralist, or the man of the 
world, be blind to the benefit which would accrue 
to them, were society to be built on the founda- 
tion of truth "and of sincerity. If our servants, a 
race of persons on whom much of our daily com- 
fort depends, are trained up in habits of truth, do- 
mestic confidence and security will be the happy 
result; and we shall no longer hear the common 
complaint of their lies and dishonesty ; and, the 
parents who feel the value of truth in their do- 
mestics, will, doubtless, take care to teach their 
children those habits which have had power to 
raise even their inferiors in the scale of utility and 
of moral excellence. Where are the worldlings 
who, in such a state of society, would venture to 
persevere in what they now deen necessary white 
lying, when the lady may be shamed into truth 
by the refusal of her waiting-maid to utter the lie 
required ; and the gentleman may learn to feel 
the meanness of falsehood, alias, of the lie of 
convenience, by the respectful, but firm, resistance 
to utter it of his valet-de-chambre ? But, if the 
minds of the poor and the laborious, who must al- 



CONCLUSION. 275 

ways form the most extensive part of the communi- 
ty, are formed in infancy to the practice of moral 
virtue, the happiness, safety, and improvement, of 
the higher classes will, I doubt not, be thereby se- 
cured. As the lofty heads of the pyramids of 
Egypt were rendered able to resist the power of 
the storm and the whirlwind, through successive 
ages, by the extent of their bases, and by the 
soundness and s irength of the materials of which 
they were constructed, so the continued security, 
and the very existence, perhaps, of the higher or- 
ders in society, may depend on the extended moral 
teaching and sound principles of the lowest orders ; 
for treachery and conspiracy, with their results, 
rebellion, and assassination, are not likely to be the 
crimes of those who have been taught to practise 
truth and openness in all their dealings,on the ground 
of moral order, and of obedience to the will 

OF GOD. 

But, it is the bounden duty of the rich and of the 
great to maintain their superiority of mind and 
morals, as well as that of wealth and situation. I 
beseech them to remember that it will always be 
their place to give and not to take example ; and 
they must be careful, in the race of morality, to 
be neither outstripped, nor overtaken by their in- 
feriors. They must also believe, in order to ren- 
der their efforts successful, that, although morality 
without religion is, comparatively, weak, yet when 
these are combined, they are strong enough to 
overcome all obstacles 

Lying is a sin which tempts us on every side, 
but is more to be dreaded when it allures us in the 
shape of white lies ; for against these, as I have 
before observed, we are not on our guard ; and, 
instead of looking on them as enemies we consider 
them as friends. 



i27G ILLUSTRATIONS OF LYING* 

Black lies, if I may so call them, are beasts and 
birds of prey, which we rarely see ; and which, 
when seen, we know that we must instantly avoid: 
but white lies approach us in the pleasing shape of 
necessary courtesies and innocent self-defence. 

Finally, I would urge them to remember that if 
they believe in the records of holy writ, they can 
thence derive sufficient motives to enable them to 
tell spontaneous truth, in defiance of the sneers of 
the world, and of " evil and good report." 

That faith in a life to come, connected with a 
close dependence on divine grace, will give them 
power in this, as well as in other respects, to eman- 
cipate themselves from their own bondage of cor- 
ruption, as well as to promote the purification of 
others. For, Christians possess what Archimedes 
wanted; they have another sphere on which to fix 
their hold ; and, by that means, can be enabled to 
move, to influence, and to benefit, this present 
world of transitory enjoyments ; a world which is 
in reality safe and precious to those alone who 
i; use it without abusing it," and who are ever 
looking beyond it " to a building of God, a home 
not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." 



THE END. 



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